


I Wear My Heart On My Sleeve

by Asasin



Category: Gears of War (Video Games)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Best Friends, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boys In Love, Canon, Coming Out, Derogatory Language, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Everybody Lives (or do they?), Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Gay Rights, Gen, Hate Crimes, Homophobic Language, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Plot Twists, Post-War, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Secret Relationship, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Suicide Attempt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Undecided Relationship(s), Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, You Have Been Warned, matching tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asasin/pseuds/Asasin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an old saying.</p><p>A/N: Still on haitus. Sorry. I'm off and on working on the next chapter. I truly appreciate the comments; they're wonderful and inspiring. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hangover Street

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone who has been commenting! Your words are motivating and a real joy to read. :) The kudos are a real pleasure, too.
> 
> Happy reading~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning was two steps away from hell’s door and directly on Hangover Street. It all started the moment he opened his eyes.

The sunlight pouring through the open curtains peels open the engineer’s sleep-gritty eyes. They immediately squeeze shut when it feels like his eyeballs are about to burn out of their sockets. “Fuck,” he groans, burying his face into his pillow.

Rolling onto his left so his back is to the window, the blonde hides under his covers. There’s enough shade here that he can open his eyes without any serious discomfort. At least this way he can adjust ‘gently’.

Then a wave of some other kind of hell rushes over him. It feels like someone split open his head and poured lemon juice over his brain. Fuck. The blonde groans loudly, wanting to fall back asleep so badly. But the hammer-pounding pulse beneath his temples is raging high hell. It seems to gather ungodly momentum at every thundering strike.

Damon swallows heavily at the pain, wincing as the thin stream of saliva struggles to travel down his dry throat.

So this is what a hangover feels like? Well, what else could have such a hellish aftermath? Feeling like an earthquake broke out inside his brain, thick nausea soup in his stomach, and a throat that feels like a fucking desert, cacti included, seems to nail down the sign “hangover for this poor fucker!” pretty well.

With the light no longer quite as offensive, he pulls himself from beneath the covers and stumbles towards the window. Shying away from the direct sunlight like a vampire, he practically rips the curtains together. He then turns towards the next thing on his agenda: getting ride of the desert in this throat. He heads towards his small stash of water bottles. Suddenly an overpowering urge to puke sends him stumbling towards the bathroom instead.

Flipping open the toilet lid, he vomits. He tries not to think about having his face so close to something so dirty... but fuck: it just makes him want to puke even more. Thankfully just one big heaving of sour fluids is all that volunteers to leave his body. Fine by him except for the shit-tastic taste it leaves in his mouth.

He flushes, wincing at the too-loud sound and remembering the water limitations. While the island's water filtering system is being fixed everyone is suppose to follow a strictly conservative usage of water. And that water system is the one he is supposed to be working on, should be working on right now.

Shit. Hoffman is going to ripe of his head and shit down his neck.

It feels like it's about noon, and no one has come to ask where the hell he is. Maybe last night was such a big shindig no one would expect him to be anything but massively hung over. As nice as that would be, Damon knows reality is rarely that kind. He quickly pushes that tempting thought aside.

Man, he needs to get his shit together.

Getting off his knees, Baird turns on the bathroom's light a quarter way—electricity is being conserved too. Looking at himself in the mirror, he manages not be surprised at crappy reflection peering back at him. His hair is a mess with rims of black creeping around his bloodshot eyes. But it's not so much as what on the outside that looks like shit, bit what's on the inside that feels like shit.

Yeah… he is definitely not going to be drinking anything alcoholic for a while. In fact, as far as last night goes, he’s starting to dislike that shit now.

He runs the facet just long enough to do a quick rinse in his mouth along with his face and then his arms—

He stops in confusion.

What the hell…?

He notices an irritated as hell marking on his right forearm. Squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again in an attempt to focus his rather sloppy vision, Damon feels a million butterflies flopping heavily in his stomach.

He is dreaming right now, right? This is just a dream?

Scrawled on his arm is the simple, scarlet red outline of a heart. That’s not what sends adrenaline into his stomach and steps up his heart rate, however. It’s what inside that heart that sends his mind spinning: "Marcus Fenix". The letters are slender and scripted like Romeo’s poetically romantic writing to Juliet probably would have been like.

"What the fuck..." Damon croaks, staring stupidly and wondering if his eyes are too bloodshot to see anything straight. That can happen, right? He rubs his eyes. Nope. He then rubs at the mark, achieving only a frustrating, burning sensation. More water, maybe?

No, that doesn't help either.

It can't be a tattoo. It just can't be a fucking tattoo. Period. But it sure as hell looks like a tattoo, acts like a tattoo. That means... that means it's permanent.

His mind stops running for a millisecond before jumping into Damon-overdrive-worried-as-shit-mode.

What the hell is he going to do? Wear a long-sleeved shirt for the rest of his life? Make-up? Avoid the public? What if someone sees it anyway? Then what?

Damon looks at the tattoo in triple the aghast he’d initially felt. This going to end his comfort in social life… probably end him.

Does anyone know any gay gears in the COG? No. Why? They can’t exist. Why is that? In a fragile society, change, even the slightest is not what people are looking for. It’s too dramatic, too often chastised as being unwelcome, bad. People need solid structure, unbending unification, nothing that could and would send a pulse of malfunction down an already fragile chain.

Gay men and lesbian women would be poison in the system. Too many voices would demand opposite solutions. Men and women divided cannot build a new world. They only destroy what they’ve come so far to reach.

In a way, then, the worst part is Damon can't deny that having this tattoo doesn't mean anything. He's always felt something for Marcus. At first it was a possibility of the usual things: disgust, annoyance, intolerance... (He could go on and on.) But it was only too apparent a little part of Damon was shining through like a bat out of hell. A little part of him that his mother—and, to a lesser but still acknowledged extent, his father—had tried so hard to stamp out years ago.

For the most part they succeeded.

But people can’t hide from themselves; they can only burry away the part they hate and try to forget. Maybe pretend that that was never really them all along. It doesn’t matter what they think, what they do in the end, though. People can never really change their true selves. They just wear a mask and pretend they’re someone else.

Well, that someone else Baird thought he was—could change to be—didn’t last long.

Almost like a lingering craving never satisfied and always hanging over him, he could never look at Marcus as just his Sergeant, as just another dirt bag tossing out orders. His mind had separated Fenix from the moment they met.

Damon wants Marcus in a way most people would find disgusting, unnatural. It's something that hasn't changed, hasn't even begun to fade through the years the engineer has known the older man. And the fact that Marcus doesn't plain out hate him for being such an arrogant, loudmouth bastard doesn't help any, but, rather, fuels his imagination and ridiculous, schoolboy crush.

At first he tried to play that typical asshole-Baird tune, something that should have been natural. In the end he smoothed out, his rough edges turning dull. He couldn't help it. Marcus won him over without even really trying. If anything, Marcus had only to be himself for Baird to start falling.

Now, if anything, he feels even stronger about Marcus than ever. So having the man's very name permanently written on his body hits him deep. But it's not in a good way. It's like fate laughing in his face, because he never really had a fair chance with the burly gear. So long as Anya is clinging to Marcus' arm like a Barbie doll, he figures he’s just going to get the cold shoulder. Well, even if Anya weren’t in the picture he still wouldn't be. But Damon being Damon finds it easier to blame someone else than accept facts.

Though he’s tried to get that into his thick skull, but he’s just too stubborn of a bastard. Letting go, moving on? Never really one of his stronger suits. But he's neither a stalker nor disrespectful to any stretch of the imagination. He may be an asshole, but he’s not a weird asshole. No, Damon copes with it to the best of his ability.

He lightly touches the fresh tattoo. It hurts like a sonofabitch. But doesn't rejection? Ah fuck; he's starting to sound like his dad when his mom started ignoring the old man. The thought a thread of relation sends a bitter retaliation, enough for Damon to jump anyway from his self-pitying thoughts. But when fingers brush over the tattoo one last time, just to make sure it didn't change its mind about coming off, he feels a cool aura settle over him.

Who gave him this tattoo? Damon knows he sure as shit didn’t give it to himself. Sticking himself with a needle a thousand times? No thanks. Not even if he were as drunk as he probably was.

The blonde swallows hard. Sam. She’s the only one who anyone with half a brain would trust to give a tattoo.

Surely she wasn’t drunk too, because she hadn’t made him look like a Dalmatian when she started poking with her tattoo gun. His ink looks as sober-legit and flawless. Then why did Sam give him a tattoo like this? She must have known he was drunk, out of his mind, not thinking fucking straight. Did he really manage to convince her in his drunken stupor? Or did she really not care that she practically painted a bull’s eye on his forehead? Or is she just good at giving tattoos while drunk?

Admittedly he usually is an asshole to her, but it had never gone so far as to possibly make her want to do something like this. Besides, he can’t see Sam as being this cruel. No, she must have been drunk, too. Some people were half descents shots when they were drunk after all. So… maybe it could be the same for tattooist?

…And what if she wasn’t?

Damon can’t help the thought. He has never been the most optimistic person throughout his life.

The engineer squeezes his eyes closed. What if she told someone? Well… then he’s fucked.

What if Marcus saw him get it? He suddenly wonders, eyes flipping open. Fuck! What if people saw him get it and not everyone was drunk? Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Double fuck. Shit fucked sundae.

He stares at his raggedy reflection. How is he really going to cope with this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to finish this, so I'm posting it before it's done (started it late in 2014 for Pete's sake). That means updates will be rather sporadic at times
> 
> Well, this is probably going to be one of the longest love stories I've ever written. Here we go!
> 
> P.S. Kudos tell me you like, comments tell me why. I really appreciate and enjoy reading any and all of them (so long as their not rude, of course). :)


	2. Hydraulic Piece of...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with a hangover and fixing a hydraulic dam. Fuck.

Getting the water system operational is as simple as fixing the water filtering part of the machine and the generator. While fixing the generator is nearly a finished job, the water filter has proven to be a much more sophisticated and drawn out job.

Damon has never seen a water filter as complex as the one Azura has, and he doesn’t have all the necessary tools and supplies to fix it (or at least hasn’t found them yet). So he has to either manually make new parts for what’s broken or try to fix all the miscellaneous problems with already broken parts.

Making all the new parts could take maybe a month, but fixing the current one could take even longer because it’s a more delicate process. However, everything also depends on if he can locate the necessary tools or find a more efficient way to go about fixing it. If both or either of those things happened then it would certainly be simpler to accomplish the task.

To make things a bit “easier” Hoffman made the decision for him. Making new parts would require the usage of too many resources and, as Baird knew but Hoffman had to make a point to say, resources are limited. So the engineer is stuck with doing one hell of a repair job.

Sitting in his room, nursing a major headache and cursing at his inability to concentrate, Damon mulls over how he’s going to explain to Hoffman why he opted to get drunk and fuck doing his job.

Being stationed on Azura, an island in the middle of a salty-as-shit body of water has one small problem: there’s no fresh water to drink. And requiring supplies from mainland is, quoting Hoffman, “A waste of time, resources, and makin’ Azura look undependable!”

Yep, the C.O. definitely won’t take too kind to knowing Baird has been slacking. Even though Damon knows he could say he was mentally unfit for the concentration and cognitive requirements of his duty, the reason for that would fall entirely on his shoulders.

As if knowing Hoffman was going to be pissed at him is the only thing he has to worry about right now. There are two other things to top off his shit-tastic sundae: worrying if Sam remembers giving him his tattoo and if anyone else (not drunk and particularly Marcus) saw him get it. Then there are those other little things in-between to fret over, too.

Right now it’s just easiest to lie on his bed in the dark, in a long sleeved shirt, trying to cope with his hangover.

But reality is a bitch, a sour and evil little bitch. And she makes sure he isn’t too comfortable.

The heavy rapped of knuckles against the blonde’s door sends tremors of minor explosions in his head. He would scream “shut the fuck up!”, but the thought of his brain imploding inside his skull seems utterly realistic right now. Instead, Damon shuffles off his bed, takes a giant gulp from his water bottle, and wanders towards his door. Pausing in front of it, he quietly pleads it isn’t Hoffman. Or Marcus.

He peeks through the peephole and quickly looses tension. Thank God.

He opens the door and steps away. “Hey, baby,” Cole greets with the usual big grin as he steps instead the dim room. Not everyone just gets to jump into Baird’s personal-personal space, but Cole is pretty much as close as friends come. “You gotta hangover?” Baird peers at him. Is that joke or an honest question? Fortunately it seems to be later. “Yeah, I s’pose,” he replies with a shrug. Cole chuckles.  
“I figured as much.” The blonde freezes. He figures?  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“You were choking down the liquor pretty hard last night.” Damon swallows. Yeah, he doesn’t remember much, but that has to be true so he nods slightly. “I left early before the drinks really starting rollin’ in. Didn’t want to deal with any of that morning pain.”  
“Lucky you…”  
“Ah come on, baby. Don’t be sore. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow.”

‘Tomorrow is not today unfortunately,’ Damon grimly thinks. “So, did you come here to tell me something or just ask about my hangover?” Cole grins smoothens out, revealing it didn’t exactly come just to chew the cud. Damn. “Actually the big man himself was wonderin’ where you’ve been all morning. Missed you at breakfast and lunch.”  
“Hoffman?”  
“Marcus.”

Baird tries not look like he’s just been told there’s an asteroid coming towards Earth and death is imminent. But the look curious look on Cole’s face tells him he’s succeeded just about as well as a fish would at pretending to be a cat. “Does he need something?” Baird asks, trying to whip his face clean.  
“Not really. Jus’ is wondering why you aren’t working on gettin’ us some clean water. Apparently Hoffman was gonna get a report from you on the work. But you weren’t there to answer his questions so he asked Marcus about it.”

Great, Marcus got his ass chewed for my hangover.

“And he asked you to check on me. Yeah, great. I have a fucking headache that could kill a fucking brumak... if they were still around. That water filter is the last thing I want to see right now.” Cole puts his hands up in the worldly gesture of surrender. “I know, baby.” Damon sighs. This is just embarrassing and fucking great.

Gears don’t get “days offs”. In fact, there’s no such word. There’s medical leave, but that’s only for injuries that require R&R. Sure he’s never been a sucker for the rules (seeing them more as guidelines), but he does know them well enough.

“Just let me get my boots on.” Cole leans against the door in a silent ‘okay’.  
“How pissed was Marcus?” Cole shrugs.  
“You know the man, it’s hard to tell how he’s feelin’.”  
“Yeah…” he silently agrees.

*

Against his will, according to Baird, he goes to the mess hall to pick up a late lunch. Thanks to Cole, someone was told to leave a tray of food out. The Corporal is sincerely not hunger and the light making blisters on his eyeballs has done nothing to help his mood. But Cole is mighty persistent and practically steers the smaller man into the mess hall, so he gives up. As far as Damon is concerned, he just wants to get to work on the water filter and get done with Hoffman. Granted the old guy isn’t that bad, one of the few Damon doesn’t consider being a complete and told prick, but he’s just not up for anything today.

Munching on his unwanted lunch with Cole watching him like a fucking mother bird, Damon forces himself to focus on absolutely nothing. It feels like that will help his overpowering headache.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s not working.

This food feels like cardboard in his mouth despite how the supplies on the island are actually pretty top-notch. Right now it only stirs up only nausea not satisfaction. “Cole, I can’t eat this shit,” he growls, pushing the tray away with his fork. “I feel like I’m going to puke.” He peers over at his companion. The sympathetic and defeated look on the man’s face shows the blonde isn’t going to get any resistance. “I better go find Hoffman and give him that report he wants. Not like much has changed since two weeks though,” he grumbles. Cole nods.  
“I wish I could come along, but I’m needed elsewhere. And since you’re not going to be eating that…” Damon offers him a smirk. He had expected as much.

With Azura only a new command post for the COG, activity has been at absolute maximum. Gears are busy as all hell trying to make the island look acceptable and stabilized. Plus, with the few helping hands, there’s plenty of work to go around. Many of the soldiers who had come over with Hoffman had been sent back mainland weeks ago to start rebuilding there as well.

Things are questionable between the Stranded and the COG. Thanks to previous disputes and the many civilian deaths that rest squarely on the COGs’ shoulders, it’s become more of a race to scrounge up any useful minerals and materials before the Stranded do. Better to have the upper hand than try trading to the very people who would rather try to survive the overwhelming numbers of Locust by themselves than join forces with the COG.

‘Everything has a beginning,’ Damon muses. ‘This one just is uglier than most.’

*  
An hour later…

Bristled and ready to just lay down and die, Baird stomps towards Azura’s hydroelectric dam. This side of the island is arguably the more scenic side and also where his project is located. Not only does the dam power much of Azura’s electricity but it also powers the water system that supplies the clean, drinkable water. Or rather it would if the piece of shit wasn’t broke.

Of course Hoffman had been upset with Baird’s reasoning for shrugging off his only duty, but the old man wasn’t the sort to pester and beat around the bush about it. He went straight to the point with chastising and then asked for a report.

Fortunately, Baird could deliver a tidbit of good news since he had managed to overcome some repairs for the water filter. He could tell Hoffman had been slightly baffled by his so far slow progress. But just because he’s one hell of an engineer doesn’t mean he can always fix shit in kick-ass timing. The complexity of that fucking machine…

He had given Hoffman a good enough reason that the C.O. understood or at least confused him enough with jargon that the old man had nothing to do but surrendered.

It seemed like Damon had told Hoffman about why his progress was slow before, though. But he is getting old… and there’s a lot going on. Damon can’t really blame him, but he still can be majorly annoyed.

It makes sense that the water system is located near the hydraulic dam, seeing as this is where the easiest obtainable water supply is (just getting vast amounts of water out of the ocean isn’t that easy) and that’s where Azura’s energy source comes from.

The sun is burning a hole in Baird’s head, so he’s walking as fast as he can without jogging. He’s heard that exercise helps some people get ride of their hangovers, but just moving seems to make him feel worse.

Getting inside the dam is much better thanks to the cool, dark interior. Another bonus is there’s really no one else in here. Granted there’s three other half-assed engineers tinkering about, but they know better than to bother Baird. The blonde gets no exchanged glances as he wanders into the bowels of the hydraulic beast.

*

It’s late when Baird finally decides it’s time to retire. Normally he calls it quits by 2000, but Hoffman’s dragging conversation was enough for him to try to pick up any slack he might have left behind from sleeping in until half past noon.

Whipping his hands in a makeshift rag, he bends his back. “Fuck,” he grumbles after hearing a few good pops. He’s definitely sore after bending sides and backwards in awkward positions.

Whichever asshole built the hydraulic dam clearly had intended any repairs to be done by some who knew how to take it apart. Granted, Damon was impressed by the design, but would it have really killed the guy to leave a blueprint or a small guide behind? Asshole.

Throwing all the tools he’d been using into a bucket, Damon shoves the spork Cole had brought along with dinner into his pocket. He must have read the blonde’s mind about skipping dinner and disagreed with the thought. Somehow the food hadn’t tasted so bad that time around, so Baird ended up eating all of it. It was mostly the bottle of water that he’d really been thankful for. If there’s one universal cure for hangovers that Damon believes, it’s drinking lots of water. And seeing as he can’t really do that with the water restriction, he can only enjoy that cure so much. Just another reason drinking was a bad-fucking idea.

Baird shakes his head at himself. What the fuck was he thinking? Normally he’s a hell of a lot smarter than that. Alcohol is something he didn’t chug on until he was too slobbering drunk to drink anymore.

Slobbering drunk… Damon frowns suddenly. Then how did he get to his room? In that stupid state, he should have ended up in somebody else’s room by accident or at least passed out someplace like one of the hotel’s hallway.

He throws the greasy rag in his tool bucket and walks up the metallic stairway. His heavy boots rattle loudly on the treads a little too loud for his comfort. His headache is getting a little better, though. The improvement seems minimum, but compared to this morning he can say it doesn’t feel like his head is trying to split open anymore.

The whole getting-to-his-room-on-his-own-room fiasco is probably not worth wondering over. After all, it’s not like he’s going to figure it out anytime soon. Although he would really like to know who had helped him since that person probably got to know about his certain tattoo. Those are his thoughts just as he’s opening the front of the hydraulic dam building.

He turns away from them as he looks up at the dark, night sky. The streaming layer of clouds block out the stars, but the half-full moon is able to burn through enough to be hazily made out. Yep, it must be pretty damn late. Around 23000 he figures. No one is out wandering, except for the few gears patrolling. That’s not so bad since he won’t be forced into any conversations then. People really are the last thing he wants to be dealing with right now. A drink of water and bed are in order and that’s it.

The engineer makes his way towards Azura’s hotel (or the Pinnacle Tower, but nobody really calls it that anymore). Granted the building had gotten the crap blown out of it pretty good when Queen Myrrah and her bitchy pet fly had bombed the place, but it looks much better now. More of a precaution to keep the structure stable than to make it look pretty, of course.

The architecture is still damn sexy. Even if Azura was built for a bunch of lucky, smart fuckers to get stuck on, at least they were going to get stuck on the island in style. Of course with Prescott going to be around, a low profile base was probably not an option.

Oh well. At least something nice got left in one piece after the war.

Damon’s room is on the third floor. Not too bad, but still a long walk on some days. The elevators are out of commission (maybe permanently) after what Myrrah’s Tempest did to them while the Delta squad was hitching a quick ride on ‘em. Baird can’t really groan a whole lot about having to walk up three floors twice or more every day. He definitely has done worse things before, and things could be worse. After all the Pinnacle Tower has to have at least 24 floors.

Man, he’d hate to be the poor bastard hiking up 24 staircases just to get to their room. Screw the view: that many stairs everyday would just annoy the fuck out him. Fortunately, though, there aren’t enough Gears on the island for all the lower floors to be so packed that the top floors have to be used.

Back in the comfortable solace of his hotel room, Damon flips the electricity switch onto low and wanders to his small fridge to grab a water bottle. He doesn’t keep it on… most of the time. Usually when he leaves he switches it on low for half the day just so he can have some cold water. Even though he forgot this time, just the taste of water is good enough for him right now.

If the fucking dam were working then water and electricity wouldn’t be such a big conservative deal. Right now everything is running off the back up generator. Not that the back up isn’t a piece of shit or anything, but is a just back up. That generator is to suppose to be used only for a short amount of time before the dam can get brought back up online. So, it doesn’t supply much water or offer enough power to use much electricity.

Surrounded by a giant fucking body of water, and they couldn’t drink a single drop of it. Fucking ocean. Being on an island is a bitch Baird is starting to figure. Taking a swig from his water bottle, he knows that’s another thing he can’t really complain about since the Gears on the mainland probably have it much worse.

Jumping into bed after doing a little washing up with the bathroom sink, he keeps the bedside lamp on for a while so he can contemplate over his new heart tattoo. He ‘hearts’ Marcus Fenix, huh?

Tomorrow he might try to squeeze some information out of Cole.


	3. One Answer Means Two More Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon get some answers. There's definitely a surprise in them for him.

When Baird heads down to the mess hall (or, in fancier terms, the dining hall), he immediately can tell he’ll be sticking out like a sore thumb with his long sleeved shirt. Most everyone else in their A-shirts. Unfortunately, the long sleeve is his only option right now.

Piling some grub onto his food tray, Damon heads towards his usual table of choice: the one with all of Delta crowded around. He takes a seat by Cole and takes a long drink of water. Per usual, Carmine is all over bacon. It’s his favorite morning conversation, particularly since there’s actually bacon to be eaten while talking about it. He can’t seem to get over how the “succulent” meat is actually on Azura. Then again, nobody probably ever thought they’d be eating eggs, bacon, and toast for breakfast again. Even in rationed amounts, that kind of breakfast just can’t go wrong.

Taking a bite of his eggs, Baird feels rather docile thanks to the relief of his hangover being gone. The feeling passes when he sees Sam looking at him strangely. A bowling ball drops in his stomach as she quickly looks away when their eyes meet.

Fuck. That’s never good.

Oddly, she tries to make up for it as if she feels guilty for feeling a certain way. “Still got a hangover?” she asks, taking a careful sip of what Baird assumes to be coffee. “It’s gone.” She definitely knows something if she already known he’d have a hangover.  
“Well, right lucky you are. I hear some people are still sufferin’. Guess it’s been a long time since anyone’s had that much to drink.” Damon shrugs, not really caring about anyone else’s headaches. “I’m surprised Hoffman authorized that party,” Anya chimes in.  
“We needed that,” Carmine says.  
“Nothin’ like a good party,” Cole agrees.  
“Speak for yourselves…” Dom groans. He’s slouched low in his seat, moving his hash browns around with his fork. It’s pretty obvious he’s still suffering from a hangover. Damon suddenly feels a little bit more lucky that his is gone. “But with that much liquor? Sounds like easy trouble,” Anya says. She forks her eggs in thought. “Maybe he just wanted to get rid of the alcohol,” she muses. “It was pretty obvious a lot of people wanted to drink it anyway. I’m sure there would have been some rule-bending and fights to get to it.”  
“Great, so he saved us the trouble,” Baird grumbles, watching Sam try to coax Dom into eating something.

He really could care less of a shit why Hoffman let a lot of gears get drunk off their asses. Granted, it was strange. Anya was probably onto something with the old gear realizing the alcohol was going to be a problem anyway. Besides maybe he didn’t have such a giant stick up his ass and realized everyone deserved a break after the shit storm they’d all been through.

Then again everyone apparently didn’t mean Baird. Seeing as he has more important duties, he was expected to not have drunk so much that he would be shirking perhaps the most important problem on Azura. ‘Fucking dam,’ the blonde fumes.

For the rest of breakfast, Damon is mostly quiet. He’s waiting for everyone to finish, so he can get Cole alone. Sam is probably the one he should talk to for answers, but she really is the last person he wants to have a chat with right now. Especially since she keeps trying to open a friendly conversation with him. Normally, they just step on each other’s toes and glare. She definitely knows something that’s bothering her. And that bothers Baird. A lot. He’ll have to talk to her later, once he knows what to expect after talking to Cole. Hopefully he knows something useful.

When mealtime is over and everyone departs their separate or same ways, Baird follows Cole.

“Cole, you gotta minute?” he asks, jogging up beside him.  
“I always got a minute for friends, baby. What’s on your mind?”  
“Right… Look, about last night…” Damon teeters off, not really sure how to say this. “I don’t really remember anything, so there’s a few things I was hope you could… clear up,” he finishes carefully.  
“Whatcha wanna remember?”  
“Was everyone from Delta there?”  
“Everyone except for Anya. I don’t think she’s much for drinkin’.”  
“What, so Marcus was there, too?” Damon can scarcely hide his astonishment. He might not have known much about him, but Damon was almost certain Marcus wouldn’t go to the other night’s shindig. “Yeah, the man himself showed up for the party. Suprisin’, huh? Stayed for a while. We talked, but I think he was mostly there for a quiet drink. Dom and him did a lot of talkin’.”

Okay, he could kinda see that.

“Was Sam giving tattoos?” Baird wishes the question hadn’t left his mouth when he sees Cole turn to look at him curiously. “She wasn’t while I was around. Damon, what are you getting at, man?” Yep, that question had definitely been too direct.

Time for him to leave.

“Thanks for the info Cole. I’ll tell you later on.” He wanders off towards the hydro dam, knowing full well his friend is watching him closely. Cole is decent enough when it comes to not prying into other’s people business, so Damon isn’t too worried. This is one of those things, though. Questions will be asked no doubt or at least the lingering desire to know would be obvious. Fortunately, Cole also doesn’t gossip or ask around if he knows something personal or sensitive is going on. Unfortunately he doesn’t know what Damon is worried about is either of those things.

Baird begins to feel a little worried that the former Thrashball player might ask other Delta members about his questions and start a bullshit loop of wonder. Not that that would be the intention, but it would be the outcome. The blonde sighs. He better let Cole know something so he doesn’t do anything Damon will have to chew on later.

*

Five hours later finds Baird wandering back towards the hotel. Despite the hell of the last two days, the blonde is feeling in a good mood at the moment. He’s made quality progress today. After tinkering around for the greater part of the morning under in the belly of the beast, he’s solved one of the dam’s many problems. The one he fixed is pretty damn big problem (no pun intended…), and it’ll help him fix assorted others.

Looks like his ‘little’ project is finally about to get finished. In that regard, he could estimate that in about… a week or two he could be looking at a finished job. That would please Hoffman for a while. At least until he found something else he wanted Baird to fix. Hopefully it would be something simpler this time… like a toaster or a kitchen blender.

Nah, knowing Hoffman, he would probably want Baird to hop in that sub’ Delta squad had used to avoid the maelstrom and get to Azura. There was no question about it being battered up and old. Anything in a questionable condition did not fit the Colonel’s standards for sure. Not that Damon was going to complain. Starting on a different project would be nice. Not to mention that the sub’ actually was running so that wasn’t going to be the main issue. As he recalls from the last time he was in it…

Damon pauses that thought as he suddenly notes Marcus and Sam walking towards the hotel together. Not entirely an odd thing, but still curious nonetheless. As far as he knew (and where Delta was concerned the blonde knew pretty well how everybody got along), Sam and Marcus didn’t do much of anything together. If anything their relationship was very professional. Not to mention Damon can’t really remember the last time he’d seen the two of them having a conversation. Plus, Marcus’ constant companion usually is Dom.

They must talking about some mission detail or Hoffman’s latest orders, he figures. Something military related, anyway.

Going the same way, Baird trails behind, at least, a good fifty yards. He doesn’t really want to get caught up in whatever they’re talking about. Besides, with this tattoo he doesn’t really know if he’ll be able to keep his cool with Marcus around. It’s not that Damon isn’t good at hiding behind a smirk, but something like this might be too awkward not to be able to give away something. And he can’t forget that Sam knows something. That adds a nice fucking thick layer to this mess.

Watching them enter the hotel and head toward the mess hall, he knows he’s going to have to deal with them one way or another. After all, it’s pretty much an unsaid protocol that all of Delta squad sit together. With all the shit they’ve been through that’s understandable, but sometimes Baird thinks it’s a little stupid. He’s not going to complain, though. There might be other fish in the ocean, but who really cares?

The blonde gets a little nervous when he heads over towards Delta’s usual table. Nobody seems particularly interested in his arrival, though. Normally, he’d have something smart-ass or attention grabbing to say. Right now he silently sits near Cole and as far away from Marcus and Sam as possible.

Cole immediately notes him, and Baird wishes he could say it was nice, but he knows his friend is being just as friendly as he is curious about earlier today. Lunchtime is usually is pretty quiet since there’s not much to talk about, so, fortunately, there’s not much chatting to be done.

Besides, Cole is smart. He can tell whatever is bothering Baird is something that he doesn’t want to talk about in public. And at the moment, the engineer is too distracted for any conversation anyway. He’s “spying” on Marcus and Sam (if sneaking frequent glances across the table spying).

Marcus is at the end of the table on the opposite side from Damon. Per usual Anya is sitting by him. (Sometimes that’s Dom’s spot and sometimes it’s Anya’s, but usually it’s Anya’s.) She’s such a bag of ridiculous smiles when she’s around Fenix. It usually annoys Damon a little, but today it’s getting under his skin more than usual.

When was she going to get an important job that would keep her too busy? One preferably far away, like on the mainland. Yeah, Damon could get used to that.

At this point it would seem for sure he didn’t like Anya. But actually he doesn’t mind her as much as he leads someone to believe. (And he can make it look like he pretty much doesn’t like anyone.) The real thorn in his side was that Stroud is Marcus’ unofficial girlfriend. Sure, the big guy never put forth any effort to even make it look like they were dating, but the way Anya acts and reacts around, towards, or about the Sergeant makes it pretty obvious. It seems like Marcus doesn’t like to publicize their relationship while Anya doesn’t care who knows.

Just thinking about that squeezes all the juice out of Damon’s grape. His love life is definitely a raisin at this point. And knowing he’d never get even a tiny taste of what it feels like to be something more in Marcus’ eyes is a bitch slap and appetite grabber. Fate is such a motherfucker.

He finishes up the rest of his meal in a hurry. “I’m outta here,” he tells Cole.  
“Back to work already, baby?”  
“You don’t know the half of it.” He ignores Cole’s questioning look and heads out.

He wanders outside the fair bustle of gears to stand by a small bluff overlooking the ocean. The beach looks flawless and seems to glow in the afternoon sun. The water laps playfully against its shores, throwing small waves onto the sand. Farther out the ocean seems to melt into one big pot of dreamy blue. 

The whole scene looks incredibly appetizing, but deep down Baird feels like it’s just a mask. Some couple hundred miles away there’s the rubble of war standing in silent horror. He couldn’t imagine being in one of the colonies rebuilding in the ashes of peoples’ former lives. He might actually get a little worried about ghosts…

“Hey, Baird.” The blonde goes rigid. Fuck. He turns his head slightly to watch Sam approach. “Yeah?” he asks in a carefully neutral tone. Right now he’s certain she could seriously screw him over if she wanted to. Better tie back the asshole-act. “Didn’t know you liked enjoying the scenery.”  
“When you’re used to staring at broken shit and destruction, this isn’t so bad.” She shrugs in an unspoken ‘fair enough’. “So, I wanted to talk with you about something…”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“It’s about the other night’s party. And I guess there’s no easy way to say it.” She glances at him as if for permission or acknowledgement that’s he’s listening. Damon’s cheeks are burning, and he’s about as stiff as a bedpost. That should be enough of a hint for her. “I guess you already know about the tattoo, wearing that long sleeve out this nice weather.”

In his defense a million threats come to mind, anything to scare her away or at least get him away from his conversation. He’s good a confrontation, but this kind? He’d rather eat rat poisoning than drink that cup of tea.

Baird feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Either it’s actually really hot or Sam is actually making him super fucking nervous. Damon doesn’t sweat that easily, so it’s probably the second. “Okay, so what’s your point?” he asks. He probably shouldn’t be an asshole about this, but feeling cornered is about Baird’s least favorite thing. “I’m sorry.” Damon swallows.

Wow.

“You’re… sorry?” he asks, turning to look at her.  
“What? I can’t be sorry?” She asks, looking offended. Her expression clears up quickly, however. “I wasn’t as drunk as you when the whole think took place, so I could have said ‘no’.”  
“Fuck,” Baird muttered. “It’s pretty much just like I thought,” he explains when Byrne glances at him. He sighs. “Yeah, it’s not really your fault, so… it’s not like you have to feel guilty or anything.” It’s a little awkward telling the one person he teases the most that they’ve been forgiven. “It’s permanent, you know,” she says, as if giving him an opportunity to take that back. He can tell she’s expected him to pissed at her. Surprisingly it’s not really the case. “It’s called a tattoo for a reason,” he retorts. “For being a complete and utter arsehole, you aren’t so bad sometimes, Corporal.” He snorts and manages a smirk.

“So what are you going to do?” Sam asks on a more serious note. “Wear a long sleeved for the rest of your life?”  
“Not like there’s much else I can do. Tattoos are permanent, remember?”  
“I might be able to change the design to something less… compromising.” As the last word leaves her mouth, Baird realizes how oddly silent and okay she has been about the whole ‘Damon is probably gay’ thing. “Don’t like it?” he asks, to peel away a layer of that onion and hope it doesn’t make him cry too much. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking.” She grabs his shoulder gently. “We might not get along a lot of the time, but I’m not going to judge you like that. No matter how much I want to push you out of a window.”  
“Thanks, Sam.” She gives his shoulder a soft squeeze before dropping the physical contact.

“So… uh, what were you talking about with Fenix before lunch?” Admittedly he used Fenix instead of Marcus to make his relationship with the Sergeant sound more professional-like, but the look Sam gives him is enough for him to realize how horribly he just failed. “It’s, ah… interesting you should ask…” she starts, suddenly on the awkward end, too. “The suspense is killing me…” Damon says suspiciously.  
“I gave Marcus a tattoo that night, too.”  
“Marcus?” Damon repeats stupidly.  
“The same one as yours actually. Except with a different name and in a different spot.” His heart is suddenly thudding, threatening to break out of his ribs. “It has your name on it, Damon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has a wonderful holiday and new year. :)


	4. The Tattoos Aren't The Only Thing That Matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam talks with Damon. Dom talks with Marcus. Could there be a bit of matchmaking going on here?

“It has your name on it, Damon.” Baird’s stomach feels packed with butterflies and a cold shiver run down his back despite the midday sun’s unimpeded heat. His normally clear mind suddenly has an extraordinary difficult time grasping the concept. Marcus got a tattoo with his name on it… in a heart?

He’s afraid to believe what this means, as if believing it will cause it to become a dream… or an accident. But if this is real, if Marcus was under the same influence as Baird, then… then the blonde actually has chance. Then Marcus actually likes him more than he leads on, and everything Damon thinks is going on between his Sergeant and Anya is actually nothing more than a platonic relationship (or at least on Marcus’ side).

Wow. It was more like holy motherfucker.

“That gave you a lot to think about, didn’t it?” Sam asks. Baird nods, slowly. He’s trying imagine Marcus asking Sam to give him a tattoo, then explaining what kind of tattoo he wanted. Not exactly the easiest thing to picture.

“I can’t believe you gave him a tattoo.” Byrne scratches the back of her neck in guilty embarrassment. “Yeah, probably not the best idea right then. Dom was being surprisingly persuasive though—“ Damon notes a soft blush appear on her tan cheeks “—I think he knows something about Marcus’ preferences.” She looks at him. “And I’m a little bit surprised about yours.” Baird tries to appear unbothered about the idea and shrugs. “Yeah, well everyone has their own thing.” She nods, again surprising Baird with how unbothered she is with the whole thing.

They stand in silence for a while, watching the beach and ocean. It isn’t entirely uncomfortable, seeing as each of them is busy stuck in their own thoughts… own desiring romances. Finally Sam speaks up, knowing she’s probably needed elsewhere. “I’ll leave you to your scenery then. And… good luck with Marcus.”

Damon turns around with red cheeks and flips her off as she turns to walk away. She laughs and returns the gesture.

The engineer finds himself actually smiling when he turns back to look at the ocean side scenery. It’s the same white beach, but looking at it now, he doesn’t feel the same. Sam is definitely not so bad as he’d thought. And maybe… just maybe things will turn out all right after all. Even though that sounds corny as hell he’s actually okay with that right now.

*

“Why don’t you just talk to him? Or at least drop a hint… something.”  
“What’s the point?” Dom sighs. Yeah, that’s typical Marcus. Relationship? What relationship? That’s pretty much his motto.  
“Well, you’ve got that nice, new tattoo—“  
“And who’s fault is that?” Santiago flinches. He then crosses his arms with a frown. “Uh-huh, you could have said something. If I remember correctly, and I wasn’t the more sober one, you agreed.” Marcus’ silence tells him he’s won that much. Still, it’s not enough for convince Marcus to do anything about his feelings. After all, those are feelings that, of course, the Sergeant denies even though the evidence is clear as day. Stubborn bastard.

It’s taken Dom all hours of the day since the big celebration to get Marcus to at least make a small indication that he does think something more of Baird. The man really is closed book when it comes to some chapters. Good thing Dom knows the index, so he can guess which pages to look to get the info he needs to guess what those chapters are about. Because, no matter how hard he tries, Marcus will not out rightly admit he likes Damon Baird. It would seem, by all means, logical to believe Fenix doesn’t like the Corporal, but Dom knows better. He knows a whole lot better than that now.

Apparently Marcus likes a man with moxie and personality. He’s not into people that roll over and look pretty. And he also seems to have a thing for electric blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. Or maybe that’s just because those features are particular to Baird. Anyone who heard Marcus likes blondes would probably think, “He’s definitely into Anya!". But how dead wrong they’d be! As it happens that blonde hair must be accompanied by the muscular features of a man along with the package of one, too.  
Dom would have never expected the Sergeant to actually be gay. Then again it’s always the ones you don’t expect, right? And he probably never would have known if he hadn’t found out by accident on the night of the celebration. It makes him sad to know it had only been by accident.

Doesn’t Marcus trust him enough to tell him these things? They’ve been friends forever it seems. All the shit they’ve seen and things they’ve done, did he really think something like being gay would get in the way of their friendship? If it weren’t for Marcus, Dom knows he would have died in Mercy. And Marcus has saved his hide even more times than that. Dom has ever tried to repay those debts by doing the same. Just because he’s attracted to something else doesn’t mean he’s any less of the man he was before. He’s still the same friend and always will be.  
Dom learned a while ago that it’s never right judging someone by sexuality. The emotions and desires people feel don’t make them any better or worse than any other human being. Love is pretty much just like any other preference, like choosing stripes over polka dots… except everybody is so used to stripes that seeing polka dots is weird. The only difference with gay and straight people is that they’ve made the matter into a big deal.

Regardless, as it happened, even alcohol would loosen up the tongue of Marcus Fenix if drunken in excessive amounts. So Dom got the unexpected update about his best friend’s orientations while they sat alone doing shot after shot. Dom drank faster and more than Marucs, but the grizzly gear was admittedly still in a slightly drunken stage because nobody had drunk alcohol in years. The love that dare not speak its name got spilled into Santiago’s lap after enough shots had been downed. It should have sobered him up more since it surprised him so much, but Dom being Dom and alcohol being alcohol meant coming out of closet deserved another drink.

Afterwards, Dom suddenly found himself aware that Marcus had a crush on Damon Baird. At the time it had been hilarious since everyone thought Fenix hated the blonde. Still, this needed proof and a dare was quickly composed.

Sam had left the party to get her tattoo gun and, even though she’d had a few drinks, was giving out tattoos because everyone suddenly desired needles puncturing their skin a thousand times per second with their drinks.

If Marcus really liked Damon Baird, he’d get a tattoo that proved it. Somehow the dare went through and suddenly Marcus was getting shot by the needle gun, with Sam telling them she knew just the tattoo design to get the idea across.

Thank God she obviously cares less what people prefer, something she made pretty clear, Dom was told, when Marcus talked to her earlier.

Still, he groans as he remembers the rest of the night. He can’t blame Marcus for holding a grudge against him, but at least the Sergeant has come around quickly since it was obvious a person didn’t really have control when they were drunk. Stupid things were bound to happen. And on the bright side, Dom was the one who suggested Marcus get that tattoo on his chest, just below his heart. “Since Damon Baird’s so close to it!” he remembers saying. Thank God everyone was too drunk to pay attention or care. And at least Marcus won’t have to worry about hiding it from everyone.

Still, he can tell Marcus would have rather avoided the whole thing indefinitely. Contrary, Dom thinks the whole mess might actually help his friend more than hurt him. After all, some people need more than a push to realize they need to reach out before what they’re reaching for is gone. As Dom sees it, knowing Baird isn’t interested is better than spending the rest of the days never knowing if things could have worked out or not.

“Stranger things have happened, Marcus,” he says. “If you can’t ask him, maybe I’ll see what Baird’s preferences are myself.”  
“Don’t you dare,” Marcus growls. Anyone else probably would have backed off immediately, but Dom knows this man inside out. He shrugs, openly looking bored with the threat. “I can’t make any promises. But I am getting tired of watching you sit back and do nothing.”  
“This isn’t the kind of relationship people are okay with, Dom.”  
“Yeah, that’s something I’ve thought about, too. But who can give a fuck as long as they don’t know?”  
“And if they do know?”  
“Knowing Baird and you, I doubt it’ll come to that.” Marcus doesn’t look the least bit convinced, but Dom can tell he’s at least thinking about it a little more. Not that that’ll help since Dom isn’t going to wait around until he grows a pair and sees if Baird likes “snakes” crawling up his ass. Nope, that’ll take forever and probably never. Dom decides he’s just going to have to go do it for him.


	5. Friends & Spilt Beans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon worries his little tattoo secret might get spilled. He also spends some quality time with his good old friend Cole Train. They have a good talk.

Damon is taking a break. He’s been working non-stop for at least four hours now, and he’s starting to get a little sore from all the awkward positions he’s been in. Mostly the hard hours are because he’s getting excited about his progress with the dam. Things are definitely looking up for repairs. He’s about to be one happy engineer strutting off to Hoffman’s office to tell him about a job well done.

That’ll get the old buzzard off his back for a little while. He smirks at the thought and wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead. Even though interior of the dam is nice and dark, moving and straining enough is sufficient enough to make him start to sweat. He’s already rolled up the sleeves of his. It’s had little effect on cooling him down, but still makes him feel like he’s at least trying.

Looking at his arm, he traces out the heart. It’s still a little sore, but he’s been taking care of it well enough, so it’s healing. Of all places to get the fucking thing, he did he have to get it on his fucking arm? Geez, he really was an idiot when he’s drunk. Looking at the swirly “Marcus Fenix”, Damon can’t help his cheeks start to get warm for reason other than the room being toasty.

So Marcus got a tattoo with his name on it, too? That still hasn’t really sunken in yet. In fact, he keeps wondering if it was just a dream. It’s almost too much to be real, to have actually happened. This is reality remember? When something can go wrong, it does go wrong. When something can happen, it won’t.

Fuck, he hardly believes the display of events for the past few days. Of all things, Damon thought the man disliked him. But he actually has a thing for him? He knows he shouldn’t get excited since Marcus and him haven’t even talked or had the slightest clue about their mutual desires. For all he knows (and in all likelihood), the man is keeping himself in serious denial about his sexuality and is trying to make things work out with Anya. He snorts. She’d have a cow and a chicken if she ever saw that tattoo while trying to get things on with Marcus. That might almost be funny to see.

Regardless, he’s been fortunate enough not have seen Marcus since lunch, otherwise he wouldn’t know what to do if the Sergeant stopped to ask or tell him something. Just knowing somewhere on that perfectly muscled body was “Damon Baird” inside a heart would be enough to make the blonde antsy… and maybe even a little shy. Then he’d probably get mad at himself for not being able to control himself. And it would look like he’s being an asshole. Right now he definitely doesn’t want Marcus to think that’s what he is.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

He pulls his long sleeve back over his tattooed arm in a rush and turns to see who’s intruding. “What is it?” Damon asks sharply, hoping the gear saw nothing. But the stairs are just right behind him, and he feels more than a pinch of nervous hit him when he sees Sumers look of almost shock. “See the tooth fairy or something, Private?” he asks.  
“Uh, sorry, sir…” the young gear stutters. “It’s just Cole wanted to see to you...”  
“K’.” Unfortunately Cole couldn’t come say that himself since pretty much the whole dam was off limits to anybody who didn’t intend on working on it. (The whole “if you’re not helping, you’re hindering” thing.)

Baird watches the Private very closely as he walks back up the stairs. He catches the man’s take on more back glance before he leaves. The way Sumers quickly averts his gaze when their eyes meets tell Damon something more than he wants to know.

“Fuck.” He rubs his temples in annoyance, although he’s more worried than pissed at the moment.

Damon doesn’t know Sumers personally, only that the young gear isn’t the worst at repairs. Apparently he had a good mentor or something, because his mind clicks nicely when it comes to figuring out how things work or how they should be working. Normally, Baird doesn’t like to give out compliments (especially when it comes to engineer’s work), but he can tease out a few nice things since he’s seen Sumers’ work before.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know if Sumers is the gossiping type. Not that the young, naïve guy gives away that type of social standing, but a person never know. Even if Sumers doesn’t like to blabber about shit, he might not be able to keep his mouth shut. Given his current situation and the standing views on gay and lesbian soldiers, Damon has every right to assume the worst.

As he wanders towards the exit, Baird thinks about what Sam had said about having the tattoo redone. That would make things a lot safer for him. What’s the point of having a tattoo of a man’s name if you aren’t even sure if you can fall in love with him, anyway? Right now he has a bull’s-eye painted on him and somebody might be taking aim.

Still, a part of Damon wants to keep the tattoo just because it’s the most personal and open thing he’s had towards Marcus. The smarter half of him knows it’s pointless. Getting the tattoo redone is the only option. He steps out in the tropical sun with a half-hearted sigh: looks like he’ll be going under Sam’s needle again.

“Hey, Damon-baby,” Cole greets with his usual big smile.  
“Doesn’t anything ever get you down?” Damon grumbles. Cole shrugs,  
“Gotta stay positive.”  
“So, what’s this ‘important’ news I’m supposed to be hearing about?”  
“Know that Griffin guy Marcus, Anya, an’ Jace met?”  
“Ah great, that douchebag. What about it him?” Dizzy and Jace had given Baird the rundown on Griffin Tower and the Imulsion operation Griffin had going on some time ago. War stories and such. “There’s been three of the colonies on the mainland that’ve been attacked within the past few days. Stealin’ supplies and causin’ damage.”  
“And Hoffman thinks it’s Griffin?”  
“Marcus introduced the idea, sayin’ Grif promised some revenge on the COG. Thinks he’s not takin’ to the COG tryin’ to rebuild so well.”  
“Uh-huh. And you’re telling me this because we’ve got to clean up Griffin’s shithead act?”  
“Right on, baby.” Damon could facepalm himself. Just when he was thinking about getting tattoo redone, a big brick wall falls between that and him. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy to get away from this for a while.”  
“If Hoffman lets me go…” Damon says in consideration. Okay, maybe he can still get the tattoo redone. Stuff takes time, right? Hurry up and wait is the military motto after all. Plus, technically the dam isn’t finished yet, so Hoffman might not be willing to let him go. “Aren’tcha ‘bout done fixin’ that beast?”  
“There’s the test run and the little refinements afterwards…” Cole laughs.  
“I don’t believe it! Damon, you’ve gone soft, baby. Don’t worry, though. Hoffman isn’t gonna send Delta in till the shit gets too hot.”  
“So negotiations then shoot the shit out of everything?” Cole nods, his big grin returning. “And who’s gonna have the honor of trying to tell Griffin to fuck off?”  
“Bernie’s got that job. And she’s gonna take Anya with her for the talkin’.”

Damon raises an eyebrow: Anya? That could work out pretty good. No Anya clinging to Marcus meant time for Damon to close in. He shakes his head quickly. Oh, no. How can he even be thinking that? He’s going to get himself in a world of trouble.

But fuck!

Marcus feels something for him, too? It’s almost impossible to say “no” to a once in a lifetime chance like that…

“Earth to Damon?” Baird meets Cole’s amused and confused eyes. “Somthin’ serious on your mind?”  
“I… uh… just trying to figure out what the fuck Griffin is thinking.”  
“Uh-huh...” Cole gives him an expression Damon knows means he isn’t buying it. “There’s somethin’ weighin’ heavy on your mind.” Damon sighs.  
“Cole, seriously, I wish I could tell you, but I really can’t. I just…” He pauses feeling epically shitty for keeping a secret like this from the one person who’s been his real friend practically since after boot camp. “…can’t,” he finishes in a pathetic voice.  
“Okay.” Cole frowns slightly, an expression Damon finds he really doesn’t like on someone with such a sunny disposition. “We’ve all got our secrets,” he continues. “But just so ya know, Damon. I’m listenin’ if you need someone.”

Just like Sam. Damon smiles. It’s genuine, not half-assed or a sly smirk. And there’s an unlikely hint of softness. All his life Baird’s never liked people: they’re complaining, backstabbing, selfish fuckers. But for the past few days he’s really seen some people are the genuine opposite. Cole and Sam actually care about him. They don’t want to judge him, just to help and understand. That’s more than anyone has ever done for him before. Hell, that’s more than his fucking parents ever did.

“Thanks, Cole. I really do appreciate it,” he says. “I… sometime, when I’m ready, I’ll tell you… if you still want to listen.”  
“Damon-baby, I’m always here to listen for ya.” The former Thrashball player’s puts on his biggest grin and bear hugs Damon. “Yeah, yeah… I love you, too,” the blonde mumbles, awkwardly hugging him.


	6. Breaking Faces And Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse before they get better.

“Hey, Blondie! Stop a minute, we wanna have word with you.” Damon pauses. What the fuck?  
“What do you want? If you haven’t noticed I’m busy, so this better not take all night,” he grumbles, turning around. He squints in the darkness at the silhouette of two figures. “Oh? And what are you busy doing, Blondie?” He’s about ready to tell this idiot to fuck off when the man snarls, “Getting fucked?” The engineer’s whole body tenses and his complexion pales a little. “You’ve got a lot of nerve saying that, assholes,” Damon quickly retorts, feeling a cool shiver wiggle down his spine. Even though his voice is solid, his mind is washed with anxiety. These pricks wouldn't say that for no reason.

Sumers. He must have saw and opened his fucking mouth.

“Really? You’ve got a lot of nerve trying to spread your disease around here.”  
“Oh, please. Are you idiots really as stupid as you look?” Damon snarls. “I don’t have time for this.”  
“You bet your ass you do,” the man’s companion growls, speaking up for the first time. Baird takes a step backwards.  
“Fuck off now before you regret this.”  
“Regret what?” The man starts walking towards Damon. He sees their wearing strips of cloth over their faces like bandanas. “We’re only going to teach you a lesson, boy,” his companion agrees, follow suit.

Damon turns around to get the hell out of dodge, but walks into a third man. “Going somewhere, little faggot?”

Damon swings first. If there’s one thing he’s learned about an impeding fight, it’s swing first and swing hard. His first punch lands squarely on the third gear’s jaw. He grunts in pain, and Damon retaliates with a second hit to the abdomen. “You little fucker!” the man gasps, grasping his stomach.

Damon doesn’t wait around to see just how pissed this asshole is. He makes a run back towards the hydro dam. It’s the closest building and maybe there will be a few sentries nearby.

The night wind slides over him with a chill, a sensation that might have been pleasantly met if he weren’t running for his life. “Just wait till we catch up with you!” one of the men shouts. They’re footsteps smack heavily against the pavement. For once Damon curses the lack of sentries around. There’s only a handful posted around the buildings, because the majority of them on the beach, surrounding around the island.

His balance is suddenly set spiraling as his foot hits upturned concrete. “Fuck!” he cries out as he launches forward. Throwing his arms out in front of him, he skids down the pavement towards the dam. With a groan, he picks himself up halfway. His arms are light on fire with pain. “Guards!” he shouts towards the dam. “Hey! Get the fuck over here!” He listens, hearing no response and the sound of heavy boots getting closer. “Hey—“ something smacks down onto his back, pushing the air of his lungs. “Well, well...” one of his pursuers purrs. Damon pushes back, but the weight flattens him against the pavement. “How about that lesson?”

*

“Damon? Come on, baby, wake up.” His eyes feel swollen, puffy, and painful. His left eye peels open halfway, but his right refuses. Each breath he takes fills his chest with a raw, aching pain. It feels like he'd been used as a punching bag. “My God, Baird, what happened?” Yeah... he'd like to know the same thing.  
“What happened?” he echoes. There’s silence and his left eye focuses in on two worried faces: Cole and Sam. “We’re hoping you could tell us.” A giant steel ball drops in Damon’s stomach as he realizes there's also a third person. He stiffly turns his head to meet Marcus’ gunmetal blue eyes. Their eyes lock. The sergeant’s gaze immediately has more of an affect than it’s ever had before. For the first time Damon feels like Marcus really looking at him, seeing him. And it makes the blonde immediately feel like squirming like a schoolgirl even though his body probably wouldn’t let him at this point. He just feels this unbelievable exposure, like Marcus can see right through him. He quickly looks away.

“Well, I’m about as clueless as you are,” he says. He stretches a little, wincing at the painful retaliation. “I feel like I got sat on by a fucking Silverback.”  
“You look like it.”  
“Gee, thanks, Sam.” He looks at her and immediately realizes she wasn’t trying to be an ass. She stares at his bed, shifting a half-melted icepack on her lap. He assumes she was holding against his right eye and probably everywhere else since his whole body feels like it needs ice. He sighs, wincing again. “Marcus found you in front of the hydro dam,” she starts, seeming to hope to jog his mind. Damon frowns curiously. Marcus? “Somebody tossed you ‘round real good. Knocked ya out cold,” Cole adds. Assholes.  
“Know anyone pissed enough at you to do this?” Damon shrugs, despite knowing that’s a pitiful answer to Sam’s question. “A medic looked at you while you were out. Nothing too serious. Just a lot of abrasions and bruising.” Sam pauses, to look him over. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything at all? Your hands are pretty beat-up. Like you were fighting.” 

Damon looks down at his hands: his knuckles are neatly packaged in white adhesive bandaging. He feels a giant helping of anxiety as he sees his arm is turned just so that part of the red heart is showing. He quickly shifts, so it’s hidden. Butterflies stab his stomach.

Shit, how people have seen it? He glances at Marcus only to see the Sergeant’s eyes are on the wall behind Damon’s bed. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed as if he’s chewing something over.

Since the whole tattoo incident, Damon hasn’t had a chance to talk to Marcus. And even though it’s only been a few days, a lot has changed. It's pathetic, but he realizes that he doesn't feel like he can act "normal" around him anymore. It's like he doesn't remember how, as weird-ass impossible as that should seem. Since he currently can't just walk away from him, he's gonna have to force himself to act as normal as possible. He just has to be that smartass, know-it-all to Marcus, not a blushing sissy.

He glances at Sam, noting she’s watching Marcus as well. Great. Looking for hints?

“We gotta figure somethin’ out,” Cole interjects, interrupting everyone’s zoning out moment. “Somebody needs to get what they deserve,” he says, folding his arms. Damon could almost smile at the gesture. “The question is who,” Marcus growls. “I’m going to see if we have anything useful yet,” he says. Sam and Cole nod, while Damon simply stares, wondering if that show of anger is because of what’s happened to him. The sergeant meets his gaze for a moment before turning towards the door.

Was that… was that concern? Damon stares as he leaves. Sure, Marcus has shown concern for him and others before, but now... now concern has a whole knew meaning. Everything fucking thing the man does has a new and amplified meaning now.

As soon as the door is closed, Cole looks at him in confusion. “What was that?”  
“What was what?” Baird asks, shrugging when the big man looks at him with an ‘uh-huh, sure’ expression. “That. The whole weird thing between Marcus and you.” Damon flinches as he tries to turn away from his overly curious companion. Weird? What’s he calling weird…

“Come on, Damon, he deserves to know,” Sam prods. Her voice is gentle, but Baird knows she’ll say something if he doesn’t.  
“I need to know what?” Cole asks.  
“It’s nothing really…”  
“Come on, Damon. When have I ever judged you, baby?” The blonde gives in with a sigh of defeat. He's too tired to fight, and Cole had a point. He didn’t even judge him when Damon had tartly told him he was a Sharks fan not a Cougars’. “Oh, just tell him already,” Sam sighs, walking across the room to the apartments single, large window.

Damon watches her stare out it, knowing she’s trying to give them a little space. He looks back to Cole’s dying curious and expectant face. “Uh… So, look, this isn’t easy to say, so I’m just going to come out with it.” He licks his lips nervously, wincing as his tongue runs over a cut on his lower lip. “And fuck you if you don’t like it,” he adds quickly. From across the room Sam snorts, but Damon ignores her. This is his way of getting comfortable, setting himself up for Cole’s reaction. “K’, pour it on me.” Cole's used to it, so he doesn't even bat an eye.  
“I sorta… have this… 'thing' for Marcus.”  
“This thing?”  
“Just show him the tattoo,” Sam suggests. She’s leaning against the windowsill, looking slightly annoyed. Damon glares at her, a silent warning to shut the fuck up. He's starting to wonder what's the point of giving them space if she's just gonna eavesdrop like crazy. “Tattoo?” Cole laughs. “Man, Damon ain’t got a tattoo.” Damon coughs.  
“I, uh… I do now.”

Damon turns his arm over to show off a portion of the lividly red heart. He gingerly works up the sleeve to reveal the rest and “Marcus Fenix” beautifully written in the center. “Oh…” Cole says quietly. “That’s, uh, that’s some nice calligraphy right there.” He stares at the tattoo for a moment longer, before looking at Damon with grin. “I can see where you’re coming from, worried ‘bout this and all, but I’m cool with it. The Cole Train doesn’t judge anyone like that. I’ve had gay girl and guy friends before.”

Damon flinches a little at the word ‘gay’. Another label from a society of assholes… signed yours truly. “Look, I’m sorry I kept it from you. It’s just… it’s just one of those things.”  
“Man, and you think you know a guy!” Cole laughs. “Did you give him that pretty thing, Sam?” Sam scratches the back of her neck, looking guilty as ever.  
“Yeah, but it was only because he wanted it so badly.”  
“Well, that explains a lota things. The long sleeves, the way you’ve been actin’ ‘round Marcus.” Damon looks at him nervously.  
“I act weird around Marcus? You think he’s noticed?”  
“Dunno. You haven’t been hanging with him that much, so I don’t think there’s much for him to notice. Just him bein' mentioned. Especially jus' now.”

Sam chuckles as she wanders back over to the bed. “Isn’t it just adorable when he’s all flustered by love?”  
“Love struck by cupid for sure!” Cole laughs. Damon blushes furiously.  
“You guys are un-fucking-believable.”


	7. Make A Match, Take That Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point it’s safe to assume Sam and Dom are performing matchmaking services. This time they decide to work together.

“So he doesn’t remember anything that happened?”  
“He’d just woke up,” Marcus mutters threw gritted teeth. “Anything on your end?” Dom throws up his hands in defeat.  
“Nothing. The guards didn’t hear anything, and there was nobody around besides you—“  
“And I didn’t see a damn thing.”   
“It’s all on Baird, then.” Marcus looks across from the Pinnacle Tower’s deck out towards the hydro dam.  
“He just needs a little while. Some rest. I’m sure he’ll remember.” He knows Dom is right. At least he wants to believe he's right. Damon just needs a little time to gather his bearings.

His eyes narrow as he watches gears wander to their posts. Which one of those sons of bitches thought they had the right? Beating someone up in the middle of night… He could ripe out that someone’s windpipe.

The night Marcus found Baird he’d been wandering past the hydro-dam when he’d the ruckus: swearing and the sound of running. At first he’d figured it was nothing more than a small quarrel gotten out of control, but once he approached the scene it was obviously more. Three men were surrounding someone, kicking him, swearing to kill him.

The moment Marcus barked at them, they’d ran like hell without even a backwards glance. The situation became painfully personal when he’d seen the groaning man was Damon Baird. Despite everything he’d been through, Marcus had scarcely felt a feeling so akin to fear the moment when he thought Damon might die. Granted, he’d been overly worried, because the Corporal wasn’t hurt that badly, but if he hadn’t showed up when he had…

Marcus curses under his breathe.

He remembers the fear glistening in Damon’s blue eyes when he’d gotten to the man’s side. They were so much like his, but brighter, deeper… He’d never look so deeply into the Corporal’s eyes until that moment, that moment when the sergeant’s face wasn’t an emotionless board, but a site of worry. “Marcus…?” Damon had asked, looking equally surprised, but extremely relieved. “What the hell are you doing here…?” Before Marcus could really answer the blonde passed out.

Fenix looks down at his railing his hands are gripping. His knuckles are turning white. It’s sad to think the only time he’d held Damon was when he was when he was unconscious and bleeding.

“Marcus?” Dom lightly grabs his shoulder. “Take it easy. We’ll figure this out.”  
“What if they try to finish it?”  
“We’re not gonna let that happen,” Dom says, dropping his hand. “I’ll go talk to Cole or Sam. See if Damon’s said anything yet. Tell them about keeping an eye on him just in case.”  
“All the time.” Marcus looks at him. “We need to keep an eye on him all the time.” Dom raises an eyebrow, but smiles and nods, knowing this paranoia has a deeper reason.

*

Dom starts making his way up the third stairway. He keeps mulling over the details of the scene Marcus described. He sighs in annoyance. Fuck, they really have nothing to go on. “Stairs kicking your butt?” He looks up with to see Sam standing in the doorway to the hall with a friendly smirk. “That wasn’t a sound of exhaustion. Just frustration,” he replies with a smile.  
“Sure. Comin’ to see if Damon has anything to say, yet?” She doesn’t wait for his nod to go on. “He hasn’t said much yet. I think he needs to get some real rest before we start interrogating him.”  
“Mar—“ Dom cuts himself off. “We should probably keep an eye on him just in case those jerks come back.”  
“That’s what Cole’s doing. Damon and him are gonna have themselves a little sleepover.” She then pauses, looking at Dom with a slightly intrigued expression. “Marcus, huh?” Dom shrugs.  
“He’s Delta’s boss.”  
“Nice try, but I did the tattoos, Dom.”  
“Tattoos?” He echoes.

Sam smiles at his flabbergast expression. He looks cute confused like that. “Yep. Marcus and Damon have matching tattoos.” Dom stares at her for a moment.  
“So… Baird has a heart with Marcus’ name in it…?” She nods, still smiling. “Wow.” He leans against the stairway railing. “Wow.”  
“Do you wanna walk and talk about this?”  
“That would be nice.”

1,500 steps down the beach later…

“Damn,” Dom mutters. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around the whole situation. Marcus is caging his sexuality and Baird is doing the same. They both secretly have the same feelings for each other, but are too afraid to admit it to one another? Just… damn. He doesn’t really know what to think. All those hours trying to coax Marcus out of his damn shell when Damon was dealing with the same damn thing?

That’s gotta be one of the biggest coincidences he’s every seen.

“It’s almost storybook isn’t it?” Sam asks, watching Dom’s studious expression.  
“Yeah. It’s almost a little too storybook.” Sam shrugs.  
“Take it where you can get it. Chances are if you feel something, someone might feel the same way.” She scratches the back of her neck awkwardly when Dom stares at her. “Guess so. It just seems…” He laughs. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Marcus is gonna love this.”  
“Good luck getting him to do something.” Dom can’t help but to agree with that.  
“And what about Baird?”  
“He already knows and… well, look at what he’s already done: nothing. Not everyone is okay with this as we are. I think that’s what they’re afraid of.” Dom nods stiffly. He might not know Damon that well, but if Marcus likes him that means something to Dom anyway. And knowing the guy got beat up his sexuality is just piss poor.

“Should we help em’?” Sam asks with a wink.  
“What you mean like… like matchmaking or something?”  
“Hey, we already got our match. We just gotta get the shy couple together.” She watches him brood it over for a minute before adding: “Trust me, on this one, Dom. I… I know what it feels like to want someone, but not be able to do anything about it. Taking the chance is better than being afraid of the fall.”

She stares down at the silky beach, feeling Dom’s gaze on her. She can’t meet it, too afraid to give something away even though she wants to. In truth, she’s more afraid of hurting him than healing him. What if another relationship is too much? There’s still a big wound on his heart healing.

“Alright,” Dom says. He’s already been trying to convince Marcus to give Damon a shot. The only hiccup now is knowing what will happen if other people, less understanding people, know about either one of their feelings. But Sam is right. After all the hell those two have been through, they at least deserve this much. It’s a start of something new. He gazes down the beach… maybe he should start something new, too. “Let’s do it together, then,” Sam says. He can tell she’s smiling without even looking. “Together, then.” He tentatively stretches his hand towards hers, smiling when she grabs it.


	8. Out of The Fire...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon starts to remember. Problems arise.

His brows are in a furrow as his mind works over the foggy memory of last night. It seems like he should have been able to remember what happened just like that, but everything is coming back steadily. That worries him a little. He didn't hit his head so hard that he's going to start having a hard time remembering things, right? Although, there are actually a lot of things he wouldn't mind forgetting... the way his parents treated him, the Pendulum and Locust War, all the friends he's lost... But the past makes the future and memories make the person.

He moves his legs so he can watch the door. He's still waiting for Cole to return with breakfast. It’s almost eerie quiet in his room now that he’s had such talkative company all night. Admittedly, even though he's a little old for a sleepover, that made him sleep a lot easier. Especially since everyone seemed in agreement that whoever had attacked him hadn’t meant for him to survive.

Baird frowns… hadn’t meant for him to survive. That sounds familiar... Why is that familiar?

“We’re only gonna teach you a lesson, boy.”

His eyes widen and his eyebrows raise slightly. It's almost like watching a movie: his brain archivist finally found the right file and plugged it in. Everything is coming back: the three thugs, running towards the hydro-dam, tripping up, the pain… 

Several shivers escape down his spine. Fuck. He really had almost died. 

“Breakfast is served!” Cole booms in triumph, swinging open the door. In one hand he has a serving tray, piled nicely with a breakfast for two. “Figured you wouldn’t want to eat alone,” he says with a smile. A confused frown crosses his face. “What’s up, Damon? You were chipper when I left.”  
“I remember everything.” Cole stares at him, and Damon stares back.

*

“So that’s what happened," Coles says.  
“Bunch of fuckers,” Dom mutters, knowing that’s pretty much exactly what Marcus wants to say. From the look of the sergeant, he seems ready to blow his top off. Not that anyone would really notice unless they learned to look for the little signs Fenix gave off. “We still have no clue who these bastards are,” Sam grumbles.  
“That’s just the thing,” Cole says. “When Damon yelled for the guards, nobody came, right?”  
“Somebody would have heard from how close to the dam he was,” Dom adds, catching on.  
“But guards around here are always slackin' off.” Sam says. "There's nothin' for them to really guard, so maybe they left their post for a while?"  
“He’s been working there for almost two months now. Nothings happened until last night. Why now?” Marcus growls. He seems oblivious to their conversation and engrossed in his own thoughts entirely.

Dom, Sam, and Cole exchange glances. They all fall quiet, not exactly sure what to say. This is a dangerous game they’re playing, and it’ll only become worse. Sure, they could make something up for Marcus, Carmine, Anya, and Hoffman to believe—Baird’s great at pissing people off. But what about what the suspects might say? If the guards or whomever are linked to the assault, they could easily ruin Baird in one swift blow.

There are other gears with the same prejudices. Hoffman, the biggest player in the game and the one they'd look to inform, could be one of them. Even with prejudices aside, the colonel wouldn’t want anything promoted that could sow dissension among the gears. Only having won the war a few weeks ago, the COG are a weak construct. With the Stranded liable to become a new threat, there’s no room for a divided house. That makes the situation only too easy to sweep under the rug, to pretend it wasn't important.

The three gears that took down Baird would inevitably take advantage of that if it came to their potential exposure. They could easily threaten to reveal Baird's secret, which could reap discontent amongst the ranks--gears different ideals colliding. They could even use that threat against Hoffman if he got involved and was a potential threat to them. The situation is fragile and unfortunately complicated.

And Marcus could easily send the situation spiraling out of control without even knowing. It was already difficult enough making sure Carmine wasn't around for the briefing. Cole, Sam, and Dom agreed he would be too inquisitive. He, as well as all of Delta, knew that it was just strange as hell someone would attack Damon without a serious reason.  


“Damon didn’t say why they went after him,” Cole says finally. “But there’s gotta be some proof somewhere.”  
“Hoffman needs to know. Then we need to figure out who these guards are,” Marcus says. Sam looks at Cole: shit. They have no excuse for delaying telling Hoffman. “I’ll tell em’ since I’m the one who heard Damon’s story,” Cole says.  
“And I’ll figure out who the guards are,” Sam adds. This might buy them a little time... at least.

*

Beat to shit when the war was over and peace was suppose to reign supreme. Baird snorts: go figure. If it isn’t the Stranded then it’s gears with sticks up their asses. He stares heavily at the door as he hears footsteps. Whoever is passing doesn't miss a beat in their stride. He sighs, realizing he’d been holding a breath. Looks like he’s a little more afraid than he realized…

Then again, if Marcus hadn’t showed up, he’d probably just be a bloody pulp on the sidewalk being shoveled into a body bag. Lovely.

He frowns: Marcus.

What was Marcus doing over by the hydro-dam? Granted it was near the Pinnacle Tower, but there were shorter ways to get to the hotel than going past the dam. For instance, walking past the Theatres and Museum was a quicker route. There’s pretty much no way the sergeant would have been coming back from the Spas and Therapy Treatments resort (which has been converted into a medical bay). No one to visit, and he sure as hell didn’t seem injured when Damon saw him yesterday.

That just left the conclusion that he was walking past the hydro-dam because whatever he wanted was there or near there. Damon’s stomach flutters a little even at the thought of the things Sam told him being true. He doesn’t have proof, but Sam (no matter now much she might get mad at him sometimes) wouldn’t lie about something like this.

So… was Marcus looking for him… maybe?

He feels almost… afraid to believe that. Getting attacked by those thuggish shitheads makes him realize how terribly fragile this sort of thing is. Sure, he’d been knocked around because of it before, but that had never gotten serious like this had been. They wanted to kill him. They were going to kill him because he liked another man.

Damon grits his teeth. It infuriates him so much he begins to tremble slightly. His body takes the movement poorly, but somehow feeling the pain only makes his anger all the more powerful.

What kind of fuckhead thought they had the right to decide what the boundaries of love were? Damon is no poet or head-in-the-clouds kind of guy, but deciding who someone could fall in love with is pretty much the equivalent of keeping a wild bird in a cage… trying to—oh, fuck it. He definitely can’t do the thought poetic justice. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s wrong. As far as Baird’s concerned, choosing whom to love is like deciding what vehicle to ride, what clothes to buy, what shoes to wear. It’s a fucking preference not a goddamn crime.

People are so closed minded, stuck in their own little perfect worlds, and they forget there are other things outside their bubbles.

Damon has a few angry speeches like this cooked up in his mind. Many times he’d thought about pouring these perspectives down his parents’ throats, only to realize there was no point since they’d immediately regurgitate everything.

Everyone is an asshole. There’s only a very few exceptions, and Damon doubts there are any more than that handful. And here people think Damon is the asshole? Oh, no. They’ve got it all fucked up!

He jumps slightly as a key jumbles his door’s lock. “Knock next time,” Damon grumbles when Cole enters. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to make you jump.”  
“Hey, I’m not easy to scare,” he quickly scowls. “Remember that war we went through?” he adds jokingly.


	9. Life Breaks Every Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Delta wonders where they go from here.

Sam grumbles as she stares down her lunch. It's mostly untouched, the food being pushed around as if to convince more of it has been eaten. “What the hell are we going to do?” she asks, still staring at it.  
“I thought you were always optimistic,” Dom jokes. Sam looks up and tries to smile, but can’t manage anything more than a half-hearted smirk. “I don’t know,” Dom sighs. The situation is too serious for joking. It could easily spiral out of control if Delta isn’t careful.

Instead of going to tell Hoffman, Sam retreated with Dom to talk about the situation while Cole went to update Damon instead of find the guards. Dom suggested the get an early lunch. At first Sam had disagreed since the situation was killing her appetite, but somehow they ended up here anyway. They've been talking the whole time, but the answers they came up were scant. What will they tell Marcus? What could they tell Marcus? He doesn’t know about Damon’s similar orientation otherwise he would understand the situation.

Should they tell him? Shouldn’t Damon be the one when he’s ready?

Convenience seems to be a commodity that’s slunk away, however. The sticky shadow that’s caught them would sooner suffocate them then retreat. With current matters, “when he’s ready” doesn’t really seem to matter…

“We gotta tell Marcus,” Sam sighs. “It won’t make sense why I haven’t told Hoffman otherwise.”  
“Baird should have a chance first,” Dom says.  
“Yeah…” Sam nods. “Yeah, that’s for the best.” Damon wouldn’t like someone else being the one to say it. She knows he's not that kind of person, but she also doesn't want to push such a weight onto him right now. He's already got so much on his plate after the other night.

She glances around the mess hall. It’s a dreadful feeling, knowing some gears that would otherwise hold steadfast could turn in a second if they knew that person wasn’t “straight as an arrow”. Sam feels an usual, cool detachment as she wonders how Carmine, Anya, and Dizzy will feel about the situation. It’s hard to say with Carmine, but where Dizzy comes from, different usually isn’t accepted. Still, she sincerely hopes Dizzy can come to terms with everything. He’s been a real friend, always looking after her.

But then Anya? Sam isn’t sure what to think. Everyone—including Anya—thinks Anya and Marcus are an item. It would be pretty harsh for the lieutenant to figure out her feels are entirely one-sided, especially since Marcus hasn’t exactly let her know he’s not interested.

Men… why are most of them so lousy with talking about feelings?

“I know that look,” Dom interrupts.  
“Hmmm?”  
“That’s the look I used to get from Maria when she was tired of men.” He air quotes ‘tired’. “Oh…” she finds herself a little flattered he was paying that much attention—oh! “I didn’t mean to make you think about her,” she quickly says. Dom shrugs, seeming to not want to talk about it, but at the same time not as distressed as he was.

“It’s just I was thinkin’ about Anya and Mar—“  
“She likes woman.” Sam drops her fork in her coffee.  
“Uh, what?” Dom laughs and reaches across the table to gently push her chin back up. She blushes mercilessly. “That was about my reaction, too,” he says with a nervous laugh, starting to feel a little embarrassed, too.

Sam blinks. She’s stunned by his gesture almost as much as she is by this news. “How… how do you know that?” Sam whispers after a few seconds. Followed by: “When did you figure it out? Does Marcus know?”  
“Seems like…” he searches the mess hall ceiling as if looking for a hint. “Seems like not long before we got on the barges. Guess she was afraid Marcus might get chummy with her while we were at sea. Didn’t want him to get his hopes up. And she really does trust him, so she was willing to take the risk.”  
“What a surprise she was in for,” Sam muses mostly to herself. Dom smirks.  
“They figured it would be safer for both of them to still look like they were still together.”  
“So… does she know about Marcus then…?”  
“Yeah, she knows.” Sam opens her mouth to ask another question, but falls silent as a few gears walk past.

She fishes her fork out of the cooling coffee and takes a sip. Is this really a good place to be talking about this? “I don’t think anybody’s heard us,” Dom says. He looks around, seeming to be thinking the same thing. It's still a little early for lunch, so there aren’t many gears are around their table and those that are early as well are busy with their own conversations.

“How did you figure this all out?” Sam whispers, leaning forward. She can’t ignore her over boiling curiosity.  
“I overheard Anya talking to Marcus about it. I wanted Marcus to know I was okay with it, so I decided I’d just tell him I knew.” Dom pushes his empty plate aside. "For as long as we've been friends, he didn't seem to trust me at first."  
“Damon didn’t even tell Cole, and Cole’s as open-minded as they get. Some things you have a hard time trusting anyone with except yourself.” Dom smiles a bit. "Marcus is pretty lucky to have a friend like you,” she adds quietly.  
“And Damon’s damn lucky he’s got you.”  
“Aw! Stop, you’ll make me blush,” she jokes. Although her teasing smirk fades as she realizes Dom’s actually blushing a little.

*

“We’re fucked! So goddamn fucked!” Damon grumbles. He folds his arms, wincing as his chest disagrees with the pressure.  
“Man, you gotta take it easy,” Cole warns.  
“Thanks, I fucking noticed.” The former Threshball player sighs as he watches his friend stare at his window, pouting. He wishes he could say something to calm him down, but nothing will help Damon when he’s like this.

Besides, the blonde has every right to be pissed. The situation is stuffed with stress. Sam needs to tell Hoffman, and Marcus is all over the situation. The big man is letting his emotions show this time, but unfortunately it’s putting Damon in a difficult position. They can’t delay telling Hoffman and if Marcus tells Hoffman himself, then shit will really hit the fan.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” Damon grumbles. “We can’t just sit around waiting for Hoffman and Marcus to crawl up my ass.”  
“We haven’t got a lota options...” Cole replies a little cautiously. He doesn't really want to see Damon yelling with bruised ribs.  
“Let’s just tell Hoffman those assholes don’t like me. And they’re trying to pin the ‘gay’ thing on me just to get me into even more trouble.”  
“I don’t know 'bout you, but it seems kinda weird to use somethin’ like that against you just out of the blue. What if they say somethin’ ‘bout your tattoo?”  
“Fuck… I don’t know, maybe it was some stupid dare? Everybody was drunk off their ass that night.”

Cole falls silent for a moment. “You said Sumers was the one what saw your ink before this happened, right? I’m thinkin’ I should talk to him.”  
“When you say ‘talk’, I hope you mean cream the little shit.” Cole shrugs. From what he can tell Sumers seems shy, not the kind guy who would try to get someone killed. “You sure somebody wasn’t onto you before him?”  
“Uh, no. It’s not like I have a fucking ‘gay diary’ that blabbers about how much I wanna have sex with Marcus!” Cole raises an eyebrow, and Damon immediately looks away, cheeks burning. “Just… just forget I said that.”

Damon stares at the window again. Outside is another promisingly beautiful Azura day. In here it feels like fucking rain clouds have started pissing again. “It must have been Sumers,” he mutters. “There’s no one else, and I’m sure he saw the tattoo." He sighs. "If you’d have seen the look on his face…”

What had the look on his face been? Mostly it was shock. He can’t remember any visible disgust or anger, but the private might have been too surprised at first. Those feelings must have caught up with him later, because three thugs sure as fuck caught up with Damon. The blonde grinds his teeth. When did that little shit get shipped in, anyway? Seems like it was only a month ago. Fucking newbie. Why did he deserve to come to Azura? Fucking shitty luck.

“So, there’s somethin’ else you should know.” Damon looks at Cole curiously.  
“Yeah…?”  
“Marcus has gotta know you both dig guys.” Damon feels his cheeks start to heat up—partially in embarrassed and partially in anger. Tell Marcus? “Whatdaya mean tell Marcus!?” Cole decides to stay quiet while Damon fidgets. With Baird the words have to be at the right moment otherwise they'll go right over his head.

“Do you—do you have any idea how fucking weird that would be?” the blonde blurts out. “You can’t just walk up to a guy and say things like that!”  
“’cept he feels the same way.”  
“It’s a whole different fucking thing when it’s actually happening!” Cole smiles sympathetically.  
“You gotta calm down, baby. He likes dudes, you like dudes. You’re jus’ breaking the ice.”  
“But then he’ll know why those assholes went after me. What if he thinks it’s too risky?” Damon whines.  
“He cares 'bout you, Damon. Whatever he’ll be doin’ will be because of that.”

Damon sits in silence for a moment. He doesn’t know what to say. “Yeah, I know he needs to know,” he says surprisingly calmly, rubbing his temples. “It would be some pretty confusing shit for him otherwise," Cole agrees.  
“Yeah.” He sighs. It’s probably already pretty confusing.

Okay, he doesn’t have a choice. He hates it, but it's true. Marcus would be all piss and vinegar if he knew they hadn’t told Hoffman yet. He really wants to say: “I don’t want to tell him.” But that wouldn't solve anything. Unfortunately he can’t hide in his shell forever. Life likes to break every fucking egg. “I don’t know what to tell him,” he says.  
“Just open your mouth, baby. Somethin’ll come out.” Cole laughs. Damon smirks dryly.  
“That’s real fucking easy to say. Try doing it.”

*

“What you need, gear?” Hoffman looks up from his desk. He’s been glaring at Azura’s supply records for the last hour and could use a distraction. Well, as long as it’s not the kind that brings bad news. “Sir.” A young looking gear walks in front of his desk.

Desk. It’s a demeaning word. He hates sitting behind the block of wood. It’s for pencil pushers, not gears. There’s a considerable amount of work to be done and little of it can be done behind a desk. The war may have ended, but that doesn’t mean peace is going to force him behind one of these.

Hoffman peers at the young man for a moment. He doesn’t recognize him. “Name and rank.”  
“Private Sumers, sir.”  
“I assume you’re here to report something, Private?”  
“Yessir. It’s about Corporal Baird, sir.”  
“What about him?”  
“I haven’t seen him in the dam for two days, sir.” A tattletale, asskisser, huh?  
“Haven’t seen in the dam for two days?” he repeats, mostly to himself. Godamnit Baird. He stares are Sumers for a few seconds. “Are you his assistant or something?”  
“No sir. Not really, sir.”  
“Hmmm.” Figured. Baird is too much of a stubborn bastard to let anybody help him with mechanics. “It’s good you brought this to my attention, private. You’re dismissed.” The private looks as if he’s expected something more, but salutes and leaves.

Hoffman looks back down at the papers on his desk. He did ask for a distraction. But damnit: Baird? Why the hell did that smartass have to the best mechanic alive?

He stands up. He’s had enough of this “office work” crap. Anya is used to these tedious tasks. Once she isn’t needed in the field any more she’ll resume her previous duties ASAP. Meanwhile he’ll make sure Baird does the same. The gears need to be reminded that even though the war is over, peace hasn’t yet reigned supreme. They can’t hang up their guns and forget their armor yet. Colonies need to be established and the Stranded need to be dealt with.

It makes Hoffman sigh. Sometimes he wishes reality would go against the grain, mix it up, and makes things easy for once. Just once. Would that be so hard?


	10. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoffman pays a visit. Damon starts to question the purpose.

Damon feels a cold sweat run down his back. He’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do. Even though he should still be lying in bed, he sits at the edge instead. His nerves are very nearly short fused and laying down makes him feel vulnerable. He tries to control his breathing, but it keeps escaping him as short pants--it sounds like he's been running a marathon, even though he hasn't left his bed in hours.

The dream had been so real... too real. The hands around his neck, the boots driving into his sides--it was happening all over again. The laughter and that voice promising to kill him. He remembers the utter helplessness, the fear that froze him. At that moment, he knew... he knew they were going to kill him, and he there was nothing he could do nothing to stop them.

He’s been through a lot of shit, but this has shaken him more than anything else. Those had been fellow gears… soldiers he fought with in the trenches, had been surrounding by blood and death with, starved with. They were men that shared a companionship, an understanding—they were in this together, living and dying.

Now that’s the war is over, it seems new fronts are starting to form.

Since Emergence Day, Damon had been watching mankind’s future seem to slip away, but now he wonders if mankind had been slipping away long before the locust broke the surface. Even throughout the horrors and destruction of the years of killing and dying, so much of humankind’s hatred for one another has survived. Staring down at his hands, the blonde sees they’re shaking slightly. Fuck. The battle that hits home really hits the hardest.

He told Cole he’d tell Marcus about being… being the same tomorrow. (Although even that had been pushing it since Sam was supposed to tell Hoffman yesterday.) He doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but he has to. The sergeant is no doubt getting impatient, wondering why an investigation hasn’t been set up. He shakes his head, pushing himself off his bed.

His whole body protests, but he ignores the pain. Flinching as he takes a breath. Fucking pleuritic pain. He’s survived the war for this? Fuck that.

He walks to his window, careful not to wake up Cole. It’s both relieving and annoying having a sleep over with him. Carefully negotiating the window’s lock, he opens it all the way. The fresh air is a relief from the suffocating room.

He stares across the darkness of island towards the sea. It’s so quiet he can hear the waves lapping down at the shore. It’s eerie, but comforting. Yet, somehow nature is always comforting in its strength, beauty and even in its indifference--it keeps living, keeps finding a way to survive even when everything around it is dying.

Thus far it’s been difficult grasping a sense of security in silence like this: the locust are gone. It's not the silence of an impending ambush or death's solitude in no-man's land. It's the silence of the peace they've finally won. Yet the security he’s begun to feel from that has been fake all along. His chest tightens.

When one war ends another begins.

Damon starts to feel sleep wrap back around him. Maybe it's the steady rhythm of the waves or maybe it's just his body's exhaustion. He wants to trudge back to his bed, lie in that confined position on his back, and fall asleep. But he’s afraid of being trapped in his own mind, afraid of telling Marcus the truth tomorrow; afraid of what will happen when Hoffman learns everything. Now, more than ever, may be the most afraid he’s ever been.

*

A few minutes earlier… 

“I’m gonna go get breakfast. K’, Damon?”  
“Uh-huh…”  
Cole laughed: “Guess you need those extra five minutes.”  
“Uh-huh…”

Now…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Fuck off...” Damon mutters into his pillow.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Did Cole really forget to unlock the fucking door behind him? “Just give me a minute! Geez, don’t get your panties in a wad,” Damon shouts. All but dragging himself out of bed, he heads towards the door. His body grumbles and groans at moving around. It’s only been three days, but he’s feeling a little better at least. Honestly, he's been through worse physical injuries anyway.

Reaching the door, he checks the lever tumbler lock. It’s unlocked. He looks at the doorknob: also unlocked. The blonde rolls his eyes: seriously? He opens the door, ready to accuse Cole of taking too much food from the mess hall if he can’t even open the door by himself. His jaw locks and face become ashen instead.

Colonel Hoffman.

“Sir,” he says in a robotic, surprisingly calm voice. Hoffman raises an eyebrow at the unusual show respect. However, both eyebrows furrow once he sees the engineer’s bruised face and swollen eye. “What the hell happened to you, Baird?” Damon’s face twists in uncertainty; he shifts to hide his tattooed arm behind his back. “I may have gotten in a fight,” he admits. Hoffman's eyebrows furrow deeper into disappointment and irritation. “You got in a fight?” Hoffman echoed. Damon’s shoulders sag. Here it comes… “What the in the hell are you thinking?” the colonel barks. “You have a job to do, just like the rest of the gears. And that jobs means workin’ together. Nothin’s changed since the war’s over.” His eyes tell the corporal he better have a damn good excuse.

Damon does have a good excuse, but it’s not an excuse he can use. Every bone and fiber in his body hates it. He shouldn’t have to take the shit because of someone else’s problem.

“Well? You better start explaining, Baird.” Hoffman crosses his arms.  
“The dam should be fixed soon,” Damon points out. He can’t think of anything else to say, except something that Hoffman might actually be glad to know. Besides, going to see the colonel is one thing. Having the colonel come to someone’s door? That’s entirely another thing and not a good one at that. “Figured out one of the main issues. Everything else should fix-up easy.” The colonel nods his approval.  
“That doesn’t explain this, though.” He gestures open-handedly towards Damon. The blonde refuses to say anything about that and stares behind Hoffman at the door parallel to them. Silence lingers heavily for a few moments.

In a way Hoffman was gesturing to all of him, he knows. The colonel never has liked Baird’s snarky attitude, but he’s hasn’t really complained as much as he could since the engineer has always pulled through. He’s one of the best on the island, after all. Hell, he’s probably the best in this whole damn sinkhole of Sera.

“It’s not easy having a war we’ve been surviving for years suddenly ending,” Hoffman unexpectedly says. His voice is quieter, almost soft—or at least as imaginably soft as gruff voice like his can become. “Peace is what a soldier fights for, but in the end it’s not always what he expects.” He sounds like someone experiencing—or has experienced—the feeling.

Damon swallows. He suddenly wants to tell Hoffman the truth, get the suffocating weight of his chest. He wants the colonel to understand, to realize what happened isn’t right… shouldn’t be ignored. But he knows silence is his only real ally right now.

“Baird.” He meets the colonel’s eyes. “I know you don’t like ranks or orders, but gears are part of a system. We work together or we fall together. The Stranded are a hornet’s nest gettin’ stirred up. Azura is not a luxury island; it’s a military base. We need that dam operational. It’s the only known reliable source of electricity and there aren’t many easily accessible, uncontaminated water sources. Whatever the hell you’re thinking better change, because, whether you like or not, a lot of gears are depending on you to make rebuilding a hell of a lot easier.” Damon nods slightly. “What are your injuries?”  
“Nothin’ except for bruised ribs.” Hoffman shakes his head.  
“Do you know who they were?”  
“No.” Damon decidedly clips the details off. What if he says too much? Hoffman doesn’t need to think this is serious. Besides… there’s nothing the colonel could do if he knew anyway. “You remember nothing about them?” Damon shakes his head. Hoffman stares, burrow furrowed and eyes narrowed. He's suspicious. Damon feels a sliver of trepidation slip down his spine.

“What is this?” Hoffman asks. “Are you tryin’ to protect somebody?” Damon’s stomach starts to feel heavy enough to make him nauseous. “I wouldn’t protect those fuckers.” Hoffman nods, and the blonde suddenly wonders if he gave something away.  
“Assault of another gear is a serious offense,” the colonel remarks.  
“I didn’t do shit,” Damon hisses. “They fucking started it.” He clenches his teeth, realizing he might have given too much away.  
“And why would they do that?” Damon stares intensely at the wall behind Hoffman. What can he possibly say that won’t make his hole deeper? The seconds that tick past offer no answer.

“I don’t have time to beat around the bush,” Hoffman grunts. Damon swallows hard, thinking the colonel is really about to squeeze him for information. “Take a week of R&R. Talk to a medic. Then find an assistant and finish repairing the dam. Bernie is leaving to negotiate with Griffin, but I wanted Azura ready in case shit goes south.” He stares hard at Damon, and the blonde tries not to look too relieved to know that Hoffman means he doesn't actually have time to talk. “I want to know what’s going on Baird. Figure out what you want to say.” He takes one more look at Damon before leaving. The look was disgruntled and something else. Something else the blonde isn’t quite sure of.

Baird feels collapsing might actually be very realistic. Shit just keeps getting better and better. And the worst part is it’ll never end. He closes the door silently and wanders back to his bed. His chest is aching, but he ignores it as he sits on his bed. He closes his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. What the fuck is he going to do? Hoffman seems to think—maybe even know—something is up. Knowing how intolerant he is of gears that won’t respect military regulations, the colonel won’t just let the case rest. Damon has probably royally fucked himself.

A small shutter runs through him. Is this what the rest of his fucking life is going to look like? Running from the truth? Watching others enjoy happiness while he’s alone because of some bullshit reasoning?

Why the fuck did they call loving another man being gay when it brings nothing but judgment and hatred? Not much to be ‘happy’ about.

For the all good they were, maybe his parents were right. Maybe he should have denied himself his true feelings, became ‘normal’. None of this would be going on. None of it even would have happened. His vision starts to blur a little. Why can’t life just be simple for once? Why are people such assholes? All his life he’s been learning just how cruel society is, just how isolated from people he’ll always be.

Damon doesn’t care what people think about him deep now. They can talk all they want. But he helped win this war, too. Delta played a significant part in taking down that locust bitch--they were the ones that did it. He deserves the freedom he fought for. But what does he get? 

Shunned. Beaten.

Peace is just a façade for the next warfront. The war is never really over.

His vision blurs even more and a tear strays. What’s the point of all this? Another tear. What’s the point of living behind the curtain? In the closet? How can someone live knowing they barely scrapped through hell only to be tossed from paradise? More tears. Suddenly they’re pouring down his face. He sobs without restraint. It’s been so long, he doesn’t know if he could stop himself even if he tried. He clenches the edge of his mattress. His body shutters; his chest convulses with each rapid breath and soft snivel. All the movement hurts so much, but it only makes him want to cry all the more.

He feels so small and insignificant, an ant that could easily be stamped out and replaced if found defective. He cries for his caged freedom, how he’ll never be able to live the life he fought for. He cries because he’ll never be able to love Marcus. He cries for all the mental and physical pain endowed upon him.

He should be rebuilding in this new world, instead he’s breaking down. It twists his insides and makes the tears all the more bitter.

Yet, somehow, after a while the tears start to slow down and finally they stop completely. Eventually he sorts out his thoughts and stuffs the negative ones in the back of his mind—it’s the only thing he can do. The things that are happening now will never go away. He can only hide from them and try to forget them.

For a moment he wonders what dying feels like, because the only way to escape from hiding is to go somewhere where no one can possibly find you. What happens after death? He likes to think it’s just a deep, eternal sleep. But he obviously doesn’t know for sure. Maybe when people die they’re born in another dimension with no memory of the previous one. Wouldn’t sleep or another dimension be easier than this?

He has a gun in the nightstand beside his—the thought stops short. It sounds like someone is coming. It’s probably Cole coming back. Damon retreats to the bathroom. He closes the door just as the front cracks opens. “Damon?” It’s Sam. He clears his throat quickly.  
“Yeah.”  
“I brought breakfast. I was gonna bring up some more ice anyway.”

Damon doesn’t reply, too busy glaring at his reflection. His face is red with a moist pathway of tear streaks down his cheeks. His eyelashes are stuck together, his eyes puffy, and even he can see that look in his eyes—the look that means he’s been crying. He never wants anyone to ever see him this vulnerable.

He splashes his face with water and turns off the faucet. There was a hiccup in the small stream that serves as a stern reminder that the hydrodam still has some tinkering needed to be done—as if he needed the reminder. Grabbing a washcloth, he mats his face and looks in the mirror again: he looks at least a little better.

The bed whines as Sam sits down. She’s waiting.

Sighing, he stares at the mirror. On the outside he looks normal. On the inside he’s bleeding.

“Damon?”  
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just cleaning up a little.”  
“Okay.” Her voice sounds quiet, almost like she’s afraid he’ll break. Normally that would annoy Damon, but now he might actually just break. He opens the door, not really caring that he’s only in his underwear and a t-shirt. Sam doesn’t seem to care either. “Breakfast.” She gestures towards the tray on his dresser. “Thanks.” He takes a seat at the head of the bed. She sighs, seeming to have hoped he’d have an appetite.

“I guess Cole told you about talking to Marcus?” Damon glances at Sam, figuring she’ll be twiddling her fingers, looking awkward about the conversation. Instead she’s looking expectantly at him. He’ll admit, he really did think Sam was a bit of a bitch before. But the last few days she’ll really been proving otherwise. “Yeah.”

The thought of telling Marcus makes his stomach curl. What’s he supposed to say? “Hey, Marcus. I like fucking and being fucked by other guys. That’s why those ass-hats beat the shit out of me.” He could scream.

“Anya’s gonna love this,” he grumbles. He hasn’t been thinking too much about her part in this, but it’s inevitably going to be a big one. She’s Marcus’ unofficial, totally screwed girlfriend. Man is she going to be pissed when she learns her hunky “boyfriend” likes other men. “Hmm, not really,” Sam confesses.  
“If that’s a joke, it’s not a good one.”  
“Fine, maybe I won’t say anything.”

Sam grins when he frowns and looks at her. Dom figured it would be all right if Damon knew. After all, he’s in the same boat as Anya. “She’s not interested in men.” His eyes turn into saucers, and his jaw drops. He stares, waiting for Sam to take it back or clarify, but she just keeps grinning in amusement. “You’re… you’re really not joking?” he asks finally.  
“Come on, I didn’t act like when I figured out you were wonk.” Damon keeps staring at her, waiting for her to take it back.  
“So you really aren’t fucking around?” Sam laughs.  
“I didn’t believe it either.” Damon chews on his lip. So she really isn’t fucking around.  
“Where the hell did you figure that out?”  
“Dom.”  
“Dom?”  
“Yeah, the guy with the bushy beard. I gave him a tattoo a while ago.”  
“Like I don’t fucking know him.”  
“Testy,” Sam complains. Baird rolls his eyes. “He told me yesterday when I was thinkin’ the same thing. About how Anya wasn’t gonna like the situation.” Damon just stares at the floor, trying to let the information sink in.

Anya is a lesbian? Marcus is gay? It can’t be true. It’s just too convenient. First he thought Marcus would never be interested, and then he was positive that Anya was in love with Marcus. All this time neither of those things were true? It’s just… it’s just impossible. Reality never lies out like that. When do things every go the way they’re supposed to? He’s only heard the saying, “If things can go wrong, they will.” too many times. Okay, so not exactly the same for his particular situation, but it proves the point that reality is, nine times out of ten, a cruel bitch.

“Yeah, it’s a lot to take in,” Sam agrees. Baird comes out his trance.  
“No shit.” The words seem smart-ass, but there’s no venom behind them. He’s simply stating a fact the Baird-way.  
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” Sam stands up before the silence can resume. She looks at the door, but hesitates and turns back to him. “You gotta talk to Marcus. He getting as stir-crazy as I’ve ever seen em’.”  
“It’s bothering him that much?” Sam smirks, as if knowing exactly why Damon is asking, which she does. It’s not that hard to figure out. “Yeah. He really is.” She gently punches his shoulder. Damon manages a small smile, even though it feels hollow. “Don’t do anything too demanding today, yeah?” He nods.

As she heads for the door, the thought suddenly comes to Damon’s head, and he blurts it out: “Hoffman paid a visit.” Sam turns quickly, concern written on her face. “I told him I got into a fight.” He pauses. “Gave him something easy to believe, so he doesn’t suspect anything.”  
“Damon,” she starts. He can see worry bleeding through her eyes. “Those men know who you a—“  
“And who am I?” he snaps. Sam blinks, hurt, but more surprised.  
“You know I’d never mean it like that.” Damon stares ahead, teeth clenched. He’s so fucking tired of people labeling him. All his life, all the people he’s know: there’s always been a label. Humanity can just never fucking seen him as another man, another person just trying to live their friggin’ life.

The tears threaten to return. He bits his lips, trying to distract himself with the pain. He’s afraid to cry in front of anyone.

Sam sits back down and gently grabs his hand. He shifts, but doesn’t pull away. In a way he needs the contact, and he’s also surprised enough that even if he didn’t want the touch he wouldn’t do anything. Sam has never been the touchie-feely kind of person.

“You’re a real ass, Damon.” He snorts. “But I somehow I care about you anyway.” She uses her other hand to give his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Imagine that?” He manages a smile. “You probably know better than any of us that they could start talking.” He doesn’t say or do anything, but after a moment he nods. Sam lets him go and hands him the bag of ice off his dresser.


	11. Knock, Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon gets an unexpected visitor.

Damon puts an empty tray back on his dresser and slips into a long sleeve and a pair of pants. Just because he’s stuck in his room doesn’t mean he’s going to look like a lazy bastard who’s just lounging around. Even though that’s exactly what he’s doing at least he can look like he’s ready to do something.

The blonde stares around his room, realizing he really has little to nothing to do. It’s no wonder he only sleeps in his room: anything interesting or fun has been prohibited. Not that there’s anything on this island that would be able to keep him entertained enough to stay cooped up in his room. Okay, well… there is one thing. 

He shakes his head slightly as if to dislodge the thought and send it to the back of his mind. It could never be that easy, though. Still, the entertainment he’s thinking of still seems so farfetched that he can’t even really begin to fantasize about the situation. It certainly would be interesting, though. His mind starts to wrap around the thought a little bit more and suddenly he is fantasizing about it.

What would Marcus be like in bed? Is he a mad sex beast that likes to ravage his partner with his powerful lust? Damon snorts half in amusement, half in embarrassment. It seems kinda plausible. After all, he’s seen how crazy Marcus could get when they were out in the shit with the grubs. Sometimes the sergeant seemed bat-shit loco. Still, for all he knows, the man is very gentle, uncertain and even loving.

Damon feels a twinge of regret. He doesn’t really know Marcus. He’s familiar with him on very basic terms, but he doesn’t really know the man behind the impassive expression. Regardless of all the time they’ve spent together, it’s all been professional. They’d almost never exchanged small chat or information of any sort—personal or otherwise. The war made them brothers-in-arms and that was pretty much it. Not much could have changed that, though.

Still, Damon can’t help but wonder what things would be like if Marcus and him had hit off as friends. The idea is a little farfetched, considering the first thing the blonde said to Marcus was to inform him that he was an asshole. Plus as far as Damon could tell, big bad Fenix seemed largely annoyed by him. Although that has faded mostly since, it’s still obvious Damon’s fast mouth gets on his nerves.

But it’s obviously not the truth of the matter Damon’s interested in. What he wonders is if Marcus and him might have actually started something… special. He wonders if they had entered the whole more-than-friends situation, what kind of relationship they would’ve had—would have. Would they really be right for each other? Could they… love each other?

What about the dangers accompanying that more-than-friends relationship? Marcus still wouldn’t have been to protect him from those thugs and maybe then he would be in danger, too. Hell, for all Damon knows he could still be in danger. Maybe Sumers thought that the tattoo went two ways.

Damon’s stomach coils into tight knot. What if Sumers does think Marcus is gay, too? The man has more to loose than Damon. After all, he is Mr. Popular whether he likes it or not (probably not). People are more likely to take knowing their role model is gay a lot harder than if it was anyone else.

The blond squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to think about. He does not want to think about it. It’s just about serving of shit to add onto his already too-high shit sundae.

This whole R&R business is just gonna fucking suck. He can tell already. He’s trapped in his room with nothing to do, which means he’ll be trapped in his mind. And there’s too much crap to hate and worry about.

He takes are the posts of his bed, taking a deep breath. The pain of his bruised ribs creep over him. He exhales even slower, but it still hurts. At least he can actually feel like R&R is necessary. It’s not bed rest so he could actually wander around, but that might draw attention to him. People would gossip. That’s what they’re good at. But more worrisome, he might run into his assaulters. Their bandanas mean they could be anyone, and he would never know. If they wanted to finish him off, wandering around while his friends are busy would be the perfect chance to. No, Cole and Sam expressively said he should stay in his room.

Damon closes his eyes. A nap seems like the easiest way to forget about the world. Although he could still dream—damnit he doesn’t want to think about it. It just makes him feel like he can’t escape this hell.

His eyes snap open suddenly. Was that what he thought it was? He slowly gets up and stares at his door. There isn’t any further confirmation, but he’s pretty damn sure he heard someone knocking. He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of Hoffman coming back. It seems unlikely. After all, if the colonel was too busy to talk only a few minutes ago, he sure has shouldn't (better not...) have time to come back. He frowns, wondering if it’s Sam again. She has duties, plus she’d probably knock and say something. Cole is probably busy, too.

So, everyone should be busy. After they defeated the locust, Azura was left mostly vulnerable (aside from temporarily having a much large military force stationed on it). It's being turned into a military base. With its electricity and clean water, it’s a particularly important part in rebuilding. With limited resources on the mainland, Azura is like gold to greedy kings. (And Hoffman is probably doubling barricading efforts since the Stranded are becoming more hostile.)

So… that pretty much rules out everyone. Who the hell is it, then?

He’s sure as fuck he wasn’t just hearing things, so Damon edges off the bed and wanders towards the door. If there’s no one there, fine. If there is, he’s got his peek hole. He glances in the hole and pulls back in surprise. Trepidation explodes in his stomach.

Marcus.

He wants to believe he’s just seeing things, but there’s not in hell that’s just an apparition. His blood runs cold and his stomach becomes a butterfly zoo as he immediately thinks about what Sam and Cole said: tell him. This would be an unfortunately convenient time to do just that.

He looks back in the peek hole and stares at Marcus for a minute. He’s looking down the hallway almost as if he’s thinking about just leaving. Damon’s only assuming since the man’s face is its typical expression sheet. An inexcusable feeling of guilt lurches over the blonde and without really thinking he opens the door in a rather robotic fashion.

On the other end Marcus turns to look at him. Damon feels horribly exposed like he’s been reading as easily a large-font book page. He wishes to high hell he could just close the door and slink back to his bed as if none of this was happening.

“Baird,” Marcus greets, reminding Damon that he really is only a man. Marcus can’t read his mind. “Marcus,” he replies, feeling very thankful his voice manages to sound so normal. He steps aside, gesturing for the other to enter. “So what’s up?” he asks as Marcus slides past. He automatically stiffens as he comes so close that Damon swears he can feel the air shuffling between them.

The engineer checks himself, taking a slow breath. He has to act normal. He has to be cool about the situation; it’s nothing special or abnormal. Although it’s a nearly hopeless thought altogether. His mind is already racing as he closes the door. It’s just Marcus and him in here. Just freaking Marcus and him.

“We need to talk,” Marcus simply states once the door is closed. Damon takes another slow, deep breath. It doesn’t help.

This is it.

He’s going to tell Marcus. He’s going to tell Marcus he got beat up because some bigoted assholes figured out he’s gay. Fuck.

He turns slowly, realizing Marcus is waiting for him to say something. It doesn’t really seem logical since his stunted statement leads to suggest he has more to say. Surprisingly Marcus seems rather uncomfortable as well. He keeps shifting from his left foot to his right. It makes Baird’s stomach cough up at least a dozen more butterflies. It’s even worse that it’s now that he’s taken so long to say something… and that he doesn’t really know what to say.

In a normal day, whatever words would come to his mind would suffice, but right now every word seems like the wrong one. He takes a moment longer to stare in Marcus’ eyes. They’re intense and handsome, but so guarded. Always so guarded. Damon can barely tell he’s nervous he does such a good job at being impassive.

It was a bad idea looking into his eyes. Now Damon’s certain Marcus can—and has—read his mind. He looks at the wall.

He can’t do it. That’s it. He just… can’t.

“Hoffman knows,” he decides to announce, figuring that’s Marcus is here about. This little fiscal is about Hoffman needing to know anyway. He watches a frown appear on the sergeant’s face. “He stopped by this morning, wondering why I wasn’t slaving away on that hunk of shit.” The lie comes almost too easily. Then again it’s not really a lie. He did tell Hoffman the truth. He is telling Marcus the truth. The details he’s leaving out are the essentials that bur what’s really important.

Damon starts to feel like fidgeting as Marcus continues to stare at him. He wishes it were possible to turn into a puddle and disappear. Waiting for Marcus to say something, even though it’s only been a few, short seconds, is killing him slowly. Does he suspect something? Is it obvious how nervous he is? “I was never told,” Marcus mutters at last. He seems disgruntled to say the least. “It was only a few hours ago,” Damon ventures to reason.

Marcus’ nod is barely noticeable. He seems to be mulling something over with annoyance. Baird feels his fidgeting desires coming back. Something isn’t clicking, is it? Hoffman should want to talk to Marcus, right? And why would Marcus only figure out now when he obviously made it a priority? Whatever it is, he doesn’t feel that Damon needs to know.

“Should’ve asked Sam first,” he grumbles. He looks… embarrassed? Baird isn’t sure what he’s seeing, because he’s sure as hell never seen Marcus look embarrassed before. Maybe his head got hit too hard. “I… Uh, I appreciate it actually.” He winces at how awkward it sounds trying to make Marcus feel better. “This whole shitty ordeal is something I’d like to forget. The sooner the better.” Okay, makes it sound a little better. “I’ll be talking to Hoffman very soon.”

Ah, shit. That’s not what he meant. Okay, it kind of was, but he didn’t want Marcus to do that. Damon holds back a sigh. Well, what else did he expect to happen? “It sounded like he had things under control,” he tries. (Lie. Hoffman is just scrapping the surface.) Marcus frowns. It looks a lot like, “You’re up to something, aren’t you?” type of frown.

Damon flinches as he tries to shrug the frown off nonchalantly. He looks on in surprise as Marcus takes a half a step forward. He’d have to be blind not to see the concern as his eyes find Marcus’. The war hero takes the step back, looking unsure.

Silence settles thickly, but all Damon can do is stare, and Marcus stares back. In a strange way the easy action seems to break some invisible wall.

There’s something strangely captivating about looking into someone’s eyes. It’s one of the most intimate actions without gestures or words. Without even touching or speaking, someone can say several dozen words and have caressed several times.

Marcus’ eyes are coated with concern and a sort of need. It doesn’t look lustful, but something more, something deeper. Damon realizes how easily he could fall in love with him—how easily he is falling. And he knows Marcus feels something of the same nature. It’s almost poetically tragic: looking into someone else’s eyes, knowing how they and one’s self feels, but not daring to break down that final wall.

Marcus breaks the gaze off first, and Damon knows the look on his face. It’s the look of a man who wants something he knows he can’t have. But he can. He can have him.

Damon swallows. The words play on his tongue. His heart is stuck in his throat, beating there like a wild bird in a cage. But his lips refuse to move, and he doesn’t have the willpower to make himself speak.

“I’ll go talk to Hoffman, then.” Baird nods dumbly. His IQ could have quite possibly dropped to a five year old. Marcus walks towards the door and grabs the handle. Damon anticipates him opening the door and leaving, but there’s a pause—only if for a few seconds. He immediately wonders if Marcus is contemplating taking the risk.

The door swinging open is his decision. Baird isn’t feels an equal mixture of relief and disappointment as Marcus steps out and closes the door behind him.

Damon sits at the foot of his bed with a long exhale. He could have just run a marathon and had the equivalent of his heart beat right now. The anxiety is so thick he’d need a bend a spoon if he could scoop it out of his mind.

When Marcus and Hoffman figure out he’s lied to them both neither of them are going to be pleased. He’s particularly worried about what Marcus will think; even though Hoffman’s the one who could make his life hell, Marcus is the one who could truly make him miserable. Damon doesn’t want him to think he really is an asshole like most everyone else does. An asshole pushes away his friends instead of letting them in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologizes for the late update. I have not abandoned this story. Sometimes the chapter updates will take weeks, but the story will be finished!
> 
> This chapter was a bit of beast. Still not entirely satisfied with it. :P


	12. Don't Open The Door When The Devil Knocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon opens the door.

Damon wants to pace. He wants to pace like holy hell. What the fuck did he just do? He just sent Marcus off to Hoffman so the “delicacy” of the situation in the paper shredder. For all he knows, Marcus is talking with Hoffman right now. Or maybe they’re already headed back here. He wants to scream, “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs. But as much as that would make him feel better, it wouldn’t help the situation any…. Surprisingly.

The subtly that Cole, Sam, and him wanted is about to go sky high, and there’s no going back. If he’d just had a pair, he could have broken the ordeal to Marcus and maybe they would be improvising a plan. 

He stares at the white rug poking out of the bed a foot. What the hell is he going to do? He needs to tell Sam or Cole—preferably both—what’s going on. But at the same time he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want Cole’s sympathy and Sam’s frustration. He doesn’t want any of this shit. His fists clench the bedcover. He wants to fucking escape it all. He wishes he could just disappear. Reverse time. Something. Anything.

His eyes slip to his nightstand again. His snub’s packed away in there. What has he got to loose? He’ll never have Marcus, but he’ll never really have him anyway. What’s the point of falling in love if someone has to act as though they’re in not? He’s been pretending and hiding all his life. There’s been bricks—oh, there’s definitely been plenty. His parents were the first, asswhipes in boot camp and college, and now “brothers-in-arms”.

The pistol is out of the drawer before Damon realizes it. It feels heavy and the metal is cool—it feels right. He squeezes the grip almost mesmerized at how nice it feels. His finger rests on the trigger guard. The mag is already loaded. All he needs to do is pull the action and flip the safety off.

Baird stands slowly. His legs feel light and like jelly. He finds his strength and walks into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He looks into the mirror to see the solemn-faced blonde looking back. Damon looks himself over slowly. From his messy blonde hair to his sharp, blue eyes and bristle covered chin.

There’s nothing wrong with him.

He looks at his MX8.

Apparently there is something wrong.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Again? His knuckles turn white around the pistol’s grip. Nobody can just fucking leave him alone, can they? He pulls the slide back and raises the gun, watching it come level with his temple in the mirror. His finger finds the safety switch.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

For fuck’s sake! Can’t a guy commit suicide in peace? “Gimme a fucking minute,” he barks. He stares at the man with a gun to his head in the mirror. It’s terrifying. It’s shocking. He can’t believe it’s him and yet he knows it couldn’t be anyone else. One switch and one jerk of his finger and this ridiculously white bathroom will be full of blood and brains. It’ll speckle the walls and shower curtain. It’ll pool on the floor like a runny soup with brain tofu.

The thought sends adrenaline into his stomach even though there’s no running. He hears the knuckles on the door again: this time louder, quicker.

He changes the reflection to a man with his arms at his sides. Just… just one last time wouldn’t hurt. He puts the gun on the sink and pushes the bathroom door open, wincing as it squeaks. “It’s Sam. Open up.” Apparently she heard that. He closes the bathroom door behind him. “Sam?” he asks. “What you doing?” He’s not sure why he bothers with the words since there’s really no other reason why. She must have heard what Marcus or Hoffman had to say and is here on urgent business to try to straighten something out so at least some of the shit will miss the fan.

He unlocks the deadbolt, pulls out the chain, and finally flips up the knob’s lock. The door flies open. Before he realizes it, he’s on the floor gasping for breath. “Fu-uck,” he groans, cradling his chest.

“Did you miss us, faggot?”

*

“Damon, baby!” Cole booms, a wide grin bunching up his cheeks. He walks down the hallway with a certain aurora of glee. Held up in one hand, he’s brandishing a full platter of lunch. There’s nothin’ like eating with good friends. “I’ve got—“ He pauses, nearly tipping over the food tray. The grin drops like rock in the ocean. Damon’s door is cracked open. There are no wood splinters anywhere and no cracks, but there’s also no way Damon would leave it open like this. The blonde has taken to a new level of paranoia.

Cole sets the food tray and takes the last few steps to the door carefully. His previous nosiness rather defeats the purpose of stealth now, so it’s more a measure of caution and fear… for what he’ll find. He pushes the door inward slowly.

“Oh no…”

The room is a lingering scene from a lost struggle. The white tiles of floor are smeared and speckled with blood. They lead to the bed, where the nightstand is knocked over and the fine lamp broken. The covers are torn off the bed with the sheets following halfway. These, too, have the ghastly contrast of blood smudged on them.

Cole is frozen at the doorway, staring over and over again at the disarray. He finally swallows, and asks in a shallow voice, “Damon?” There’s no response, and he pushes the door open to step inside. Carefully avoiding the blood, he looks around. “Damon?” he asks again. “Are you here? Come, baby, please answer.” The room stays silent and a feeling dread starts to lay more heavily over him.

Cole glances at the bathroom, and suddenly he’s fixed on it. The door is closed, so… maybe? He’s in front of it in a second. “Are you in there, Damon?” He rests an ear against the wood, hoping to hear the sound of breathing, a groan. Anything.

Nothing.

He pulls away and reaches for the doorknob. Cole pauses. This could be it. He could find one the single most things he’s feared from E-Day: finding one of his friends dead. ‘He’s still alive, damnit,’ he tells himself. It’s Damon he’s thinking about after all. Ever since Cole met him, he could see how tenacious the blonde was. He wouldn’t—won’t—quit.

Cole pushes the door openly slowly—just in case Damon is leaning against it. The door goes in easily with no weight holding it back. The bathroom is empty. Contrary to the scene just in the other room, it is entirely untouched. Except… Cole walks to the sink and picks up the MX8 pistol lying on the rim. He looks it over, frowning.

This doesn’t add up. Why didn’t Damon use it to defend himself? Angry seethes through the burly gear. He never should have left Damon alone. What did they do to him? He better be okay. He better be alive.

Cole sets the pistol back; he’ll have to figure that out later. Right now the rest of Delta needs to know ASAP. He leaves the room and closes the door. His heart starts pumping with fear as his mind starts to imagine what might have happened—be happening—to Damon.

*

“Wake-y, wake-y, Damon. You don’t want to sleep for the whole cruise, do you?”


	13. Humanity's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon discovers his captives. Sam is ready to take the stand.

Damon’s eyes slowly peel open. The sunlight immediately fries them shut, and he groans. His head his pounding like a hammer on an anvil—it’s almost as bad as his hangover several days ago. He takes a deep breath, surprised by the sickly, salty smell that assaults his nostrils. It’s identical to the scent he was forced to become accustomed during that shitty cruise on the barge. He tires to open his eyes again. This time his burning curiosity overpowers the painful brightness.

Groggily, he makes out a face above him. It’s too blurry to be anyone at first, so he blinks again. Facial features start to sharpen. “Sumers?” he mumbles. The face smiles a wicked smile. “Glad to see you’re comin’ around,” is the reply. Damon explodes with angry. His fist seems to act on its own, because he’d only just barely registered the idea and already his knuckles are plowing into Sumer’s left jaw. “You _motherfucker_ ,” Damon growls. His voice is pathetic, because is mouth is so dry, but the rasp does nothing to hide or hinder the full-tilt hatred.

Sumers touches his face in surprise, wincing as he feels the tenderness in his jaw. Eyes don’t darken—it’s impossible—, but Sumers’ eyes seem to grow black.

Baird raises his arms to protect himself, but Sumers is fucking wild and finds a way around them. This asshole is nothing like the naïve gear Baird had known and ignored.

At first the blows are just for his face, but then they find his stomach and chest. The first fist to his chest is ungodly, un-fucking-bearable. He can taste blood and feel the pain eating away at his bruised ribs like acid. Somehow his pride keeps him quiet, and he focuses entirely on defending himself. He tries to kick the little prick, but only barely gets him once and that just makes the beating worse.

It fees like someone is flaying off his skin and pouring salt over the wound. He curls up into a ball, wishing he would just fucking die. “He wants him alive you idiot!” someone shouts—a woman, and the thrashing stops. “Get the fuck off of me,” Sumers growls.  
“If he’s dead, then we mind as well be, too,” she retorts, just as venomously.

Someone walks away. Damon can’t tell if it’s Sumers or the lady. Either way the fucker got capped and that’s all that matters. He vaguely wonders who the “he” the woman had mentioned was, but his mind is too clouded for him to really focus, to really care.

He lays wheezing, trying to endure the endless gnawing of pain. It eats away his body like acid, pulling apart every fiber of his being. He squeezes his eyes shut, listening to his heart pounding in his hearts. The pulse is strong and angry even though he feels weak and barely conscious. The tempo seems to skip a beat when a hand lies on his shoulder. He tenses, wondering if Sumers is scary enough to be back for round two. “Relax.” It’s the woman. He doesn’t relax, but he feels a little better knowing she doesn’t that fucker instead of joining in. “Just checkin’ for anythin’ serious.” Her accent is almost identical to Sam’s, but sharper and with double the dose. He drops his shoulders a little at the comfort familiarity brings.

The woman examines his face, and he studies hers: Her face is strong with sharp cheekbones and a hawk nose. There’s an old scar starting at her left jaw that winds up her face, barely missing her right eye, and tappers out in the middle of her forehead. Her left cheek is deformed and sunken from the scar, possibly because it didn’t heal properly the first time around.

At first glance she looks middle-aged, but, like most who’ve survived since E-Day, worn. However, unlike most Stranded who seem to wear they’re exhaustion and shabbiness, her face is clean with hair pulled tightly back—whether in a bun, ponytail, or braid, he can’t tell. Her clothes seem to be in well order, too. They also seem vaguely familiar. Something he can't quite put his finger on at the moment, though.

She analyzes his chest and stomach, before finally announcing she won’t be able to do much for internal bleeding if there is any. When she draws away, Damon fades back into unconsciousness. He’s in too much pain to care where he is, where he’s going, or if he dies before he gets there.

When he opens his eyes again, they widen in surprise: the sunken ruins of Jacinto. “Remember this?” Sumers asks. Damon stares at the ruins, ignoring the eyes on him. He remembers. Of course he fucking remembers. “The Stranded remember,” Sumers informs him. He kneels, taking Damon’s chin and forces him to look at him. “They remember how the COG deserted them. Decided that civilians were--are--expendable.” He releases his hold. “The COG are as cheap as they wars they fight."

*

_Two Days Earlier…_

The way Cole ran through the Azura, one would have thought Stranded were upon them. Fortunately no one went so far as to believe it, but quite a few got excited.

It took him longer than he’d hoped to locate Sam, but when he finally did, Cole was breathless in anxiety and excitement. He managed a few words that struck the cord home, however: “Damon… gone…” Sam went as pale as the moon and as still as a statue. Then something suddenly snapped and she threw away the empty, burlap sandbags she was carrying.

Worried oozed into her mind like a thick fog. She walked as fast as she could without. Sam wanted to run like the ground was falling into an abyss behind her, but no one ran in Azura—there was nothing of real cause to run to or from. Cole was keeping pace beside her, his face a sheet of worry.

“How long?” she asked, staring at the Pinnacle Tower as they approached.  
“Sometime before lunch.”  
“After I left him with breakfast and sometime before you arrive with lunch,” she mused aloud. “Ballsy,” she muttered to herself. It might have sounded like a compliment, but it was far from. Sam was as furious as she looked composed. “What about Marcus and Dom?” she asked “The com,” Cole said in realization, looking angry with himself. “Should’ve used the damn com.”  
“Too late now.” Sam signaled Delta’s channel. “Delta squad, report to Colonel Hoffman; ASAP. I repeat: Colonel Hoffman; ASAP.”  
“Carmine and Anya?” Cole questioned. She had said Delta squad, which implied all of Delta squad. Sam tried to sound resolute:  
“We have to trust them. We need their help, too.” Anya would be okay—surprised, but okay—, but what about Carmine?

The thought of his disgust or disapproval makes her angry. She can, in a way, understand how Damon feels. It’s not fair. It’s never been, and it never will be.

People don’t respect differences. They don’t respect variety—even though most of the time they claim they do. They become set in their ways, digging grooves that they become afraid to come out of. It makes them forget that not everyone feels the way they do. And when they’re reminded of the _different opinions_ of _different people_ , they think their way is the right way—the only way.

It’s hard to realize how difficult and harrowing that kind of situation is when conflicting opinions don’t affect one’s self. It’s easy to shrug and turn the other way. Why start or join a fight when it’s not one’s own?

The answer is simple, but the root of it is being unselfish, which many people are: it’s not always about what’s right for one’s self. Society runs on morals, and beliefs. It’s the fuel and pillars of humanity’s system. Without them the world is a cold, bleak civilization. Yet if people fail to realize faults and fight single-mindedly, civilization will be cold and bleak anyway. There is never a single path; there is no single right. And while there will be trends, there should never be standards.

Sam knew that Damon is the gear many others would see as flawed. They’ll see him as poison to the system, the destruction of their beloved machine. But she also knew Damon isn’t alone. Anya and him are inevitably the few of many.

She had made up her mind: she would tell Hoffman, Marcus, Carmine, and Anya. She was going to tell them the truth, because maybe the locust weren’t their greatest enemy. Maybe the greatest enemy was always already within the heart humanity.


	14. Lies Are Easier, Secrets Are Safer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tells the truth. Damon is on a cruise he never signed up for.

_Still two days ago…_

“Those men didn’t go after Baird ‘cause he pissed them off.” She tried to ignore the gazes of Carmine, Anya, and Marcus, but their intense curiosity seemed to be burning a hole in her back—Carmine and Anya especially since they had been kept completely in the dark. It was already hard enough having briefly told them about Baird’s disappearance and then demanding they be subtle and patient about the matter. It was mostly towards Marcus.

It was only too obvious he was unhappy about waiting on Sam. But what she has to say was important, so important that it needed to come before the search-and-rescue. This information would determine the whole damn search-and-rescue after all.

Sam kept her gaze fixedly on Hoffman, who stared back at her just as intently. His expression betrayed slight surprise, but at the same time he was not at all shocked the subject of Damon’s condition was the reason why all of Delta has crammed into his office. This was just as well for Sam, because the next bit of information may as well give the colonel the biggest shock he had had for a while.

The deep breath she took filled her with a spike of adrenaline. For a second Sam wished she could lie—it would be so much easier than telling the truth. Instead she opened her mouth, hoping the direct way she decided to breach the subject would come out as she planned. “They did it because…”—Hoffman’s gaze seemed to intensify tenfold and someone shifted behind her—“…because he’s gay.” Some invisible weight lifted on her chest, and she shoulders dropped a little: one of the hardest parts was over.

Anya gasped behind her, and Carmine managed a single, simple ‘word’: “Huh?” From what Sam could tell, Marcus was as stock-still and silent as a statue. Yet, Hoffman’s face had begun to look so grave that the apprehension Sam had felt returned and this time was as heavy as a stone mantle. She could have easily opened her mouth and gave him a spiel about rights and prejudice, afraid that the look meant no good. But she was also afraid of making the situation worse than it already was. So she breached the other subject that was weighing heavy, too.

“He’s missing now,” she started. “We’ve got ever reason to believe those bastards came after him again. They’re tryin’ to finish what they started.” Her voice turned bitter. The angry started to strengthen her confidence. “There’s nothin’ to stop them for killing him this time. We need to find him, sir.” The urgency in her voice seemed to give way to something in Hoffman. She opened her mouth, again, with the thought to make sure the colonel knew that Damon’s orientation didn’t mean a damn thing, but shut her mouth just as quick.

“I never would’ve guessed,” Hoffman muttered. One would have assumed he was talking to himself if he hadn’t been looking over the faces of Delta as well. “I can see this is news to some of you as well.” He changed his tone, spoke a little louder: “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.” Sam stiffened; she didn’t like this tone. “Regardless of his orientation, this is a serious infraction of the COG’s code of conduct. More importantly: Byrne is right. Baird’s as good as dead if these activists have gotten a hold of him.” Hoffman’s gaze shifted to Marcus as the gear stepped forward in silent protest. He directed his next words to him specifically: “However, there maybe a chance he might not be dead yet, and I suggest you get your asses in gear before that changes.” As if to clarify the point he added, “Search the island. This is obviously as sensitive matter, so kept it to Delta. And only Delta.” He gazed at each of them, as if to make sure they fully understood this.

Marcus said nothing and left. Sam could see the fire in his eyes. Whoever took Baird was going to burn. Dom looked at Hoffman, who nodded, and then he was gone. After him, Carmine and Anya slowly went. They still looked baffled. As for Cole, he took one look at the door, and then turned to her. She nodded in silent consent, and then he left as well.

“Of all people, I would have figured Baird as straight as an arrow,” Hoffman mused. He already seemed aware of why Sam had stayed behind. “You’re an good friend to speak up like this.” He also seemed surprised by this. Then again, to many people it seemed like Damon and her were closer to tearing one another’s throats out than anything else most of the time. “He’s not the only one,” she ventured. “I’m fully aware.” Hoffman stood and walked up to the window behind his desk. “Some people like polka dots. Some people like stripes. Everyone’s different, but most of us like to pretend we’re the same or similar. Most of the time it’s easier; works better. People get so good at it that sometimes they forget or don’t want to remember that we’re all different.” Hoffman turned to her. Sam drew a slow breath, her hopes drained into one big pool.

Please. Please say it doesn’t matter.

*

Marcus left Hoffman’s office like a bat out of hell, but he didn’t really know where he was going. He felt the weight of Damon’s abduction like cement that was poured on his shoulders and dried. He hadn’t known what to think for a moment. Then the mixture of emotions was hard to pick apart.

He was pissed to high heaven because those crocks of shit had gone after Damon. He was shocked, because, of all people, Damon seemed like he would be the least inclined to have an attraction towards men. He was nervous, knowing what the “activists”, as Hoffman had called them, were capable of. 

Perhaps most obviously he was having a hard time grasping the idea of Baird being gay. The words wouldn’t connect in his mind, because they didn’t seem right. Damon is gay. The sentence slipped through his mind and as simple as it was, he couldn’t comprehend it.

Damon was gay this whole time, and he’d held back because of the insistent doubt that there was no way that could happen. He’d gotten a tattoo with the man’s name on while he was drunk, but still refused to let himself to even play with the thought. Marcus had done what he had become good at. He’d bottled his feelings and thoughts, water-sealed them, then toss them out to sea. But instead of getting rid of them, this time they’ve come floating back.

Fenix was walking, even though his feet weren’t carrying him anywhere in particular. He was acting on impulse when he needed to get Delta rounded and prepped for an island search. His feet wouldn’t stop carrying him away from the scene, though. It was more than the shock of the situation. Something had threatened to fractured deep within him.

He’d lost too much in this damn war, in this damn life. He’d seen Carlos sacrifice his life, watched his father turn to dust, promised the youngest Carmine he’d tell his family he loved them. Now he was dangerously—fearfully—close to losing someone else. 

He stopped suddenly as he felt the entire weight of that fear bear down on him like the world. A hand fell on his shoulders. “Marcus.” It was Dom. “You knew,” he muttered. “You knew this whole time.” He turned and saw his friend nod solemnly. “It wasn’t for me to say.” Marcus could understand, but he still felt cold. “We could’ve protected him if you’d said something sooner.” _I could have protected him._ Dom looked conflicted. He dropped his hand. “Baird was supposed to tell you. It’s his right, isn’t it?”  
“He had the chance,” Marcus said mostly to himself.

In the hotel… Baird’s nervous and awkwardness… it all made sense now.

Marcus stared seaward. “We need to start searching the island now,” he muttered. He turned to see Cole, Carmine, and Anya were approaching. Carmine and Anya still were obviously soaking up the situation, but Cole looked as though he’d known for a while already. Farther behind was Sam.

He waited for them to gather up: “I’ll take the southwest. Dom, you’re northwest. Sam southwest. Anya northwest. Cole east. And Carmine’s west. Keep constant radio contact. And remember we’re keeping this whole situation to ourselves. I don’t think I need to tell you to check every nook and cranny.” He turned to head southwest without waiting to see if there were questions, because they probably wouldn’t even pertain to the search. “Move out,” he growled over his shoulder before leaving the rest of Delta to their ends.

*

_Now…_

When he wakes up again the pain has ebbed somewhat. It feels like forever, before it’s eventually bearable enough that he isn’t constantly clenching his teeth and clenching at the ropes binding his hands behind his back.

It’s any guess how much time has passed while he was out the first time, but if he’d seen Jacinto, he’s quite a ways from Azura now. He’s not sure how fast the boat has been going, but it’s some old, good-sized boat (probably barely seaworthy…). There’s five Stranded on board. The woman, Sumers, and three other guys he doesn’t recognize. They seem anxious and either the sea is choppy or the boat is going at a good enough pace that small waves feel big.

He hopes Delta won’t be too far behind. Maybe he’ll get lucky and one of the shore colonies will have a patrol that’ll notice. That’s a rescue he hopes won’t take too long... or be too late. The woman said they need him alive, but that doesn’t make him feel anymore comfortable. Who says they won’t change their mind?

He shifts again. His legs ache for stretching. The bonds are tight enough to grip his wrists and ankles. There’s no leeway and if he moves too much they chafe like something else. Not mention his throat has become unpleasantly dry, and his stomach is starting to feel the pangs of hungry. AKA: Being a hostage fucking sucks.

These discomforts seem minor when he hears boots clomping towards him. “Water.” The boots stop in front of him, and the owner kneels down. It’s the woman again. He stares at her hard, then at the canteen she’s offering. It’s COG, but he doesn’t bother contemplating where she’d gotten it. “How do I know it’s not spiked?”  
“You don’t. Drink it or stay thirsty.” She holds the canteen to Damon’s lips. Water doesn't smell, but he’s pretty sure he can smell something and strikes him with a need that he can hardly deny. He’s too thirsty to fucking care to let his worries govern his decision. He accepts, and she pours the contents into his mouth slowly.

It tastes like water. Not never good water, but water nonetheless. It does soothing wonders on his throat and even takes away a bit of his hunger. He’s allowed three long sips before the canteen is pulled away, and he’s left alone again.

As he lies, listening to the waves crunching under the boat, Damon starts to feel tired. The lull of the sea and its salty passion in the air suddenly seems so soothing… His head droops, but pulls it back up, blinking rapidly.

_Fucker… it was spiked…_

The boat and its occupants turn in incomprehensible masses. His mind thinks, “fuck”, but his lips barely move when he tries to utter the word. His lips feel as heavy as his eyelids.

Everything starts spinning and then… darkness.


	15. Mr. Sunglasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon discovers the meaning behind his capture. Marcus is on the hunt.

_Now..._

“Corporal Damon Baird,” a voice drawls somewhere from above him. It sounds as though someone has been reading off a list and came upon an item that intrigued them as much as it displeased them. It sounds faint, though, a background noise compared to the pounding in his temple. Damon opens his eyes, more out of instinctive curiosity than acknowledgement of his name. There’s not much to see but the shapes of blurs.

This is what? The fourth time this month he’s woken up like this? It’s not a good habit.

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Almost used to this fucking routine, he tries to regain his bearings.

Finger snap: “Water.”

He doesn’t have time to concur what that means. It hits him suddenly and like shards of ice digging into his skin. He gasps in shock, as it seems to suck all the warmth out of him and writhers like worm to escape it, pulling against his bonds. “That’s better.” Damon grits his teeth from the cold and the temptation to let this guy know how much of an asshole he is.

The water did, however, seem to snap his vision back on, and he sees a figure has kneeled in front of him. His face is as shaven as his head with pair of sunglasses perch on his nose as though fashion is still a reality in this fubar world. Damon glares up at him, not entirely sure who is he, but certain he’s with the Stranded and is a shit-wad. “Who the fuck are you?” His voice sounds like gravel, and his tongue is a wooly mammoth. “I’m the one asking the questions,” the man dismisses. He has the edge of a teacher annoyed with a pupil, but still willing to give him another chance to answer correctly. He continues: “I’ve heard you’re a decent engineer.” Baird narrows his eyes. His lip pulls up as he snarls: “Fuck you. If you think for a fuckin’ second I’m gonna help, you must’ve shaved half your brain off when you shaved your head.”

The man is up in a second, and his boot is in Damon’s is in his stomach in another. A grunt of pain leaves the blonde’s lips, but he manages to keep down the whimper that rises like bile in his throat. Above him, the man runs a ring-clad hand over his head as if to assure himself being bald is still his thing. “Don’t think for a second you’re in a position to negotiate or refuse,” he says, “COG piece of shit. I’ve got all the fuckin’ cards this time.” If a voice could be acidic, this bastard’s was choked to the brim.

Damon squeezes his eyes shut as baldy plants his boot into his side again. The pain eats him alive. He’s afraid to breath, but his heart is hammering so hard it might explode if he doesn’t. He bites his lip hard enough to make it bleed, but it seems minor—incomprehensible—to the violent pain in his abdomen and chest.

“Sir, I wouldn’t…” Sumers’ voice makes his teeth grit together. “His ribs are bruised.” There’s no pity or remorse in the statement only a blunt fact on consideration that his mechanical prowess means he's worth something. “Oh?” Mr. Sunglasses replies. “And why the hell is that?” Someone—probably Sumers—shuffles.  
“We got a little carried awa-”  
“I don’t want your fucking excuses!” Baldy suddenly decides. Boots scuff as someone takes a step backwards. “Get out of my sight.” It sounds as though a door opens a mile away, and the room suddenly falls eerie quiet.

Between the sounds of his breath licking the floor and his heart in his ears, Damon can still hear the man circling around him. He gets the sickening sensation of a wounded animal being studied by the predator before it closes in.

The footsteps stop somewhere behind him. “This is real simple…” Mr. Sunglasses informs him. His tone is quiet, business-like even. “Do as I say, and you live. Don’t… and you will wish you’d never been fucking born on this godforsaken world.” Damon pries his clenched jaw apart: “What the fuck makes me think I care?” He may feel like he’s in a pool of acid right now, but he sure as shit isn’t going to roll over for some jackhole that thinks he’s hot shit in a duster. “I don’t give a living shit if you care.” The man’s voice is tight—if it were rope it would’ve snapped. Clearly patience isn’t his stronger suit. Then, to someone else: “Chain him up.”

Damon feels a ball and chain drop in his stomach, but he refuses to say anything, refuses to change his mind. The only thing that escapes him is a grunt of pain as he’s pulled up to his feet. He glares at Mr. Sunglasses, hating him as much as he is wondering who he is. His gaze falls away his arms are pulled above his head and the pain is pulled up with it.

A hook grabs the rope binding his wrists. It’s tall enough to him to stand. If he could stand. Right now it's the only think keeping him up.

The bald man turns and suddenly Damon realizes who it is. Maybe it’s the angle or lightening finally struck the dead light bulb on top his head. More likely it’s knowing that no one else could match the reputation (and probably slightly because he called Anya a bitch). “Griffin.” He says it like a fact. Because it is. It's an ugly, fucking fact. Griffin’s lips curve like a blade, and he folds his arms behind his back. He walks up to Baird: “Work for me or die.” But Damon knows what buttons to push now. He's heard the whole story.  
“Asking for the COG’s help now? I thought the Stranded could walk on their own.” The smile dies on Griffin’s face, and Damon is pretty prepared when a large fist crashes into the side of his face. “Perhaps a lil’ hospitality will change your mind,” Griffin snaps. “Dallas’ll see to all your needs.” He turns, saying over his shoulder as he walks away, “When I come back, you better fucking pray to God you’ve changed your mind.”

*

_A day earlier…_

He’d searched the island. Twice. He’d interrogated and investigated any and everything. But Damon was nowhere. There was nothing to go on, nothing except the chilling evidence left behind in the blonde’s room. It had been enough to make Marcus sick.

Dom, Cole, Anya, Carmine, and Sam had come up with the same results. It was as though Damon disappeared from the face of Azura. The only proof of his existence was his belongings and the agonizing twinge Marcus kept feeling. He still refused to believe the worse, but he knew that the worst had finally come.

The COG’s greatest downfall would be from within. Damon had fell the first domino and soon all the others would follow. It may take a few weeks, months or even a few more days, but Hoffman couldn’t hide the truth forever. The canopy may hide the forest, but there are no leaves without the trees and dirt.

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. “We’ll find him.” Marcus looked down at her. He was afraid of what they’d find, but his face didn’t show it. Anya offered him a smile, but he couldn’t return it. He barely acknowledged it. His gaze returned to the giant blue surrounding their little island. It was little more than a moving blackness with the sound of waves assaulting the beach

The rest of Delta had turned in. They had searched all of today and the day before. The day before was more blunt search n’ rescue. Today they tried to find loose ends. For one, discovering who had been watching the hydrodam on the night Damon was jumped.

There had been two guards: Private Kevin Yoltov and Corporal Denny Berk. Neither of them could be found, and it soon seemed as though they’d disappeared, too.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. Hoffman had agreed and had sent word for Bernie to return from the mainland. She knew Yoltov and, of course, Baird. If Hoffman was willing to let her in the loop without fear of consequence, the more the merrier, Marcus figured. (Although merrier seemed like a gross overstatement.)

“Come on. Bernie will be here tomorrow. Let’s get some rest, so we’ll be ready.” Marcus was already ready. Sleep was a waste of time, and he’d only spend that time laying, thinking. Anya probably already knew this, but was no doubt willing to take that small chance of him at least getting a little rest.

For simplicity’s sake, he relented.

*  
_Now…_

Damon can barely feel his arms. He seems to suspend in the air by the surrender of gravity. His body is in a slow, hot burn, being engulfed by the fire that lusts for his pain. He feels too weak to even acknowledge the world around him. It seems to just be the face of his pain.

It has a name, this pain: Dallas. Griffin’s henchman worked him over good, a little too good. He took Damon like a punching bag. Somehow managing to cause the most amount of pain without turning him into pulp or even breaking anything. He seemed to know exactly where the most pain could be extracted. It sickens Damon to know this was probably because he’d been given the chance to refine this little job of his.

Still, when Griffin had come some back some time ago (it seems like ages to Damon), he’d spat blood in his face. It gives him pleasure and returned some of his strength to see how much it sincerely pissed the asshole off. Clearly, Griffin is used to having things go his way. There's no doubt the man had been in the corporate business before the locust hit the fan.

As of now, both Griffin and Dallas have left. Perhaps to discuss a new strategy or perhaps this already is a new strategy: They leave him alone so that he’ll grow more and more afraid of when they’ll return and the torture will resume. Then by the time they do return, he’ll plea for mercy and make a deal.

But Damon’s already too tired to let it get to him. Besides, Griffin will kill him once his usefulness is at an end, so there’s no point in breaking and making a deal anyway. Who the fuck would be dumb enough turn lose a chief mechanic so he can back to helping the COG?

The room they’ve kept him in completely dark except for a single window above that bathes him in light. It reaches for several more feet, but then he’s at a loss for his surroundings. As far as he can tell there’s a door straight ahead of him, but that doesn’t do him any good. He’s too exhausted to escape.

He stares in the general direction of the door, listening for anything. There’s no sound, not even a whisper of the world outside. It seems as though Griffin has opened a little realm outside Sera and stuck him in it. It’s a little haunting actually and fills him with a heavy sense of despair.

If he doesn’t even know where he is, how can anyone else find him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had a lot of chapter revising.


	16. Rotten Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are more evil than they want to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I updated the beginning of the story regarding Bernie. I received an insightful comment and realized the chapter was currently unacceptable! (I'm thankful for this. :])
> 
> Please note that I've never read the Gears of War books, so I'm missing a lot of curial characterization and knowledge about character interaction. I've only played and loved the video games.

_Now…_

Bernie arrived ASAP. Whatever Hoffman told her hit her rock, and she was determined to find the owner. As soon as he could, Marcus briefed her on the situation; meanwhile Cole and Sam added in everything they thought she should know. She didn’t ask many questions and was quiet for a while, but her face was as riddled as she was rattled. The look of bloody murder on her face said everything her silence wasn’t.

Baird and her might have not seemed to get along at first glance, but they have a long history. It might not have been pretty (and may have included Bernie’s open hand hitting the back of Baird’s head a lot…), but it wasn’t shallow water or water under the bridge.

When Bernie said she wanted to see Damon’s room, she sounded and looked hell-bent. However, when Marcus and her got to Damon’s door, she looked crestfallen.

Bernie has more than her share of trials and tribulations. It feels like she’s walked to hell and back several times. But some things… some things put a person at the center of hell. She stares at the handle of Baird’s door. The moment she’d finished talking to Hoffman, she’d wished she’d gotten smacked across the face by a slab of concrete instead. 

The air is thick as steel as Marcus and her step into Baird’s door. It’s like walking in a house where someone had died—there’s still the warmth of their existence, but the coolness of their absence. Marcus and her eyes follow the disarray of the room. Sam and Dom had cleaned up the blood, but the room hasn’t been returned to its original state entirely. Honestly, until Damon is back to rearrange it (or make it messier), it won’t be the same again.

They seem to stand there for several hours, with their backs inches from the door, as if they need—or want—to leave. Maybe because they are afraid there might be a ghost or Damon will scream at them to give him a little privacy.

“I didn’t know him real personal. Just enough to know that he was an annoying little, inbred shit,” Bernie whispers. She seems to be talking to herself as much as she is recollecting personal notes. “I had my doubts, but never put that much faith in them.” She starts thinking of how Damon never let her really get to know him. Was that why? He was afraid she’d figure him out? There had been a few times when she had seen it was just a façade, when Damon was being a jerk because he was trying to find an outlet for emotions he couldn’t control. Maybe ones he didn’t want. It’s a confusing, scary world when anyone could turn from friend to foe with a single sentence.

Baird was always a stickler for clinging to his asshole ways, but it makes Bernie feel a distinct kind of sickness to know that she always thought it might have been because he was born that way.

Marcus glances at her through the corner of his right eye. He’d never noticed—Damon seemed very heterosexual to him. Then again he never wanted to let himself be tempted to cross that line.

“People are more evil than they want to believe,” she continues. Her voice stays quiet—higher than a murmur but lower than a conversation. “We all wanna think we’re doin’ the right thing, but we’re just doin’ what we want.” She sighs, long and slow—if she doesn’t it might quiver. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

When Bernie closes the door, some small weight seems to lift off Marcus’ chest. Outside the room, the air doesn’t seem so heavy. “Yoltov wouldn’t do this,” she informs him. “He was a good soldier. Wouldn’t get caught up in something like this.” She starts walking, and Marcus quietly follows. “Any idea who started it?”  
“No.”  
“Baird didn’t say or hint anything?”  
“Only that three guys jumped him near the hydro.” Bernie nods; her chest feels tight. “What about finding about Yoltov and Berk?”  
“Nothing.”  
“They couldn’t have disappeared.”  
“That’s what it looks like.”

“Damnit,” Bernie mutters to herself. They have nothing. Delta has already questioned about Yoltov and Berk with nothing. That’s dangerous enough—making people wonder. Questions led to assumptions and assumptions turn into what must be happening. People are good at coming up with their own conclusions when they don’t have an explanation. They’re good at believing gossip and deluding the truth.

This couldn’t have anything to do with the Stranded, could it? She thinks about the negotiations with Griffin several days ago. He wasn’t afraid of what he was starting, but would he start so soon? She decides to entertain the idea nevertheless.

If Griffin were behind the whole fiscal, he would have captured Baird for some mechanical means—to repair or rebuild something. This probably meant he had some sinister ace up his sleeve. But no doubt there would be other ends a mechanic like Baird would be useful for. Pretty much everything in Sera requires more than an oil change and some simple tinkering. It’s more like a disemboweling and most of the necessary parts aren’t readily available. At the very least, Baird could fix, create, or proclaim junk whatever machines Griffin thought the Stranded needed.

However, making it look like Baird was mugged and kidnapped for the same reason as the mugging meant there had been a mole on Azura for some time. How else would they have known when to move? What to model the attack to look like?

Yoltov and Berk would have been in the way. Unfortunately, that means they would have been impossible to keep alive, because they would have known too much. Still, it was risky making them disappear. People would have begun to wonder. Although, if they planned to finish the mission soon, it wouldn’t matter what people were thinking if they were already gone.

Only one thing doesn’t make sense, though… why take Damon during the day? That, above all else, was risky—if not impossible. They must have meant to have taken Baird when the jumped him the first time… Yes, that made sense. Marcus had stopped them, so they needed reevaluate. Without much time before Yoltov and Berk’s whereabouts became a concern, they had no choice but to snatch Baird as soon as another chance arose.

Bernie stares down the hallway. She needs more proof before this idea is suggested. Right now she can tell it would be too readily accepted and everything else—which hasn’t been proven wrong—would be ignored. She can, however, inform Hoffman of this suspicion. He isn’t taking the matter as personally as Delta. However, he’s probably just as concerned with it. His concern might be more widely spread, though.

She can tell the nightmare has really hit Delta home, but that’s not hard, because she’s feeling the same. Although she’s a little surprised to see just how hard it has hit Marcus. While Damon has been part of Delta for quite some time, Marcus and him have never portrayed anything more than a superficial relationship. From what she’s seen, they seem like they step on each other’s toes more than dance. Still, Bernie hasn’t been around the two that much for the since Jacinto. That means she’s missed a lot of things. Right now Marcus is dismal, looming on despondent. 

If she were a gambling woman, she would trust her hunch and say Marcus was falling—or had already fallen—for Damon. He had least had some deeper feelings for the blonde. That would be a complicated situation, though. Mostly because Bernie knows how Hoffman operates. He’s by the book, down to the last page, down to the last sentence. So she knows how this is going to end. Repopulation is too important for "dangerous" relationships. As harsh as that sounds, it’s the truth.

Besides, Hoffman also wouldn’t want to entertain any ideas that could create rifts. Bernie is obliged to half agree. It’s too early to inflame one of society’s sensitive problems. Something tells her Marcus and Damon won’t agree to disregard anything that’s going on between them, though. And something else tells her she doesn’t want to agree.

Marcus and Damon have been through as much hell as everyone else. It pains Bernie to know that one of the things people spend their whole lives searching for and sometimes fighting for could never be theirs.

*

They’d thrown him in the cell like a sack of rotten potatoes, and he’s been inanimate as the soon-to-be compost. Despite the exhaustion that makes his bones lead and his limbs bricks, his mind is still awake. The exhaustion is here too, but so is his trepidation. For now that’s enough to keep him awake.

He knows this can’t keep this up. Griffin knows everyone has a breaking point, and it’s only a matter of time before they find Damon’s. But as long as that happens, the blonde plans on taking everything these motherfuckers can dish out. It sickens him to realize the growing hatred he's feeling for the Stranded. How can they turn against the gears when there’s finally a chance to rebuild Sera? How can they start another war when they just stopped a war of fucking genocide? Selfish... selfish motherfuckers.

He’s become certain that whatever Griffin wants him to fix is a weapon. Maybe even something to do with regaining satellite connection for a hammer of dawn. Whatever it is, however broken it may be, if Damon fixes it… he’ll start another war. The Stranded think this will bring them their peace and justice, but it’ll only bring more ruin. Ruin for them. Ruin for the COG. And more people will die for the selfishness of human hatred. Humanity is on their pulling their last straws and these fuckers are about to burn them.

“If you keep it up, he’ll kill you, you know.” Damon stares in surprise at the figure on the other side of the cell. He narrows his eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”  
“I guess you could call me a nurse,” she replies. A key slides into the cell door and the hinges squeal angrily as she pushes it open. He glares at her and her medical bag—it’s COG issue. She kicks up a little dust in the cell as she approaches, and he sneezes, groaning at the pain the spasm-like movement brings.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, almost gently. He says nothing, watching her be a more careful to kneel in front of him. “Courtesy of the COG?” he asks mockingly as she sets down her medical kit. She stares at him for several seconds. “Here.” She holds a bottle of water to his lips. “Last time I drank, it was spiked,” he deadpans. Sighing, she takes a swig and then looks at him.

He drinks most of the bottle. It feels like it’s been several days since he’s gotten a decent swig. For all he knows that’s accurate. Somewhere around three days at sea, and he has no fucking idea how long he’d been forced to enjoy Griffin’s “hospitality”.

“Hungry?” she asks, offering him something bread-like. “Or do you want me to taste this for you, too?” When he doesn’t reply, she takes a small bite off the corner. He then takes it with shaky hands and feeds himself with some difficulty. He recognizes the taste of the food immediately— something from a COG MRE. The Stranded must be raiding the colonies for all their fucking supplies. They’re acting like parasites.

The woman must have seen the disgust in his face, because she tries to offer an explanation. “We have nothing. Most everything’s been collected by the COG.”  
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask for before stealing,” he snarls. He doesn’t miss the hurt in her face, but he couldn’t care less. “Let me guess: that’s not part of Griffin’s policy.” The way she averts her eyes is answer enough. “I don’t have much time here,” she replies and starts digging into her medical bag.  
“I don’t need your help,” Damon snaps.  
“If any of your wounds get seriously infected, we won’t be able to take care of you properly. You’ll probably die.”  
“Oh? And that’s not going to happen anyway?” Damon’s exhausted, but he still needs someone to vent on. Everyone else has thrown a fist in his face, but this woman seems like she won't which makes her an easy target. “Is this part of Griffin’s fucking hospitality? Give me a little hope, so I’ll think I might get some mercy?” He snorts. “Fuck that. Fuck you and fuck Griffin.”  
“Are you finished?”  
“No.” His voice is getting hoarse, but he’s just getting started. “You know what your fucking problem is? You people have a giant, fucking stick up your ass. It’s been one goddamn war after another! I’m fucking sick of it. Remember that little thing called peace? Well, the locust are gone so we finally have a fucking chance at it. Now you motherfuckers are shitting on it and throwing it down the shitter!” He spits it all in her face, feeling all the more tired, but slightly better.

The woman looks shocked, but people generally are when they meet a blonde, little asshole named Damon Baird. His big, potty mouth has earned him more than a sour reputation. (Although he has to admit, he’s been rather tame since everything ended.) “Not all of us are like that,” she says finally. “You can’t judge all of use based on a few.”  
“You make it real easy, though,” he sneers. Annoyance flickers in her eyes, but she seems resolved to not let him get the better of her. “Just let me help you.” Damon lips pinch together until they’re white. Why the fuck does she want to help him so much? “It’s not like I have a choice,” he retorts. “I’m hogtied on the floor.”  
“Thank you.” He stares at her, a little taken back. Thank you?

There’s not much she can do for him. She applies antibiotics to his open cuts, examines his chest, and sews up a small, but deep cut on his forehead. Although something tells him the stitches will be more of a painful inconvenience than the beginning of a healing process. Once finished, she puts everything back into the bag as neatly as it’d come out. Damon watches, feeling the sinking notion of knowing she’ll probably be sent again tomorrow (or later today?).

The self-claimed nurse stands and heads towards the cell door. She grabs the bars and steps out of the cell, but doesn’t pull the door shut. Instead she looks back at him: “Griffin will kill you.” Her face has the grimace of a first class showing. “He’ll make you beg for it, make you think you’ll get mercy, but you won’t. Dallas is twisted.” Then she’s gone.

He feels a twinge of inescapable fear—the panic that rises like a hurricane when hope seems to slither away and defeat starts caving in. It churns in his mind. It threatens to break loose and if it does—if he lets it—then Griffin might win. He would rather die a sane man than live long enough to become a broken one.

He forces himself to think about something else. His tattoo comes to mind, and he imagines it on his arm. The rosy red heart is too cheery for this miserable place. And then the curves that make out Marcus’ name—Sam really did a fine job with the handwriting.

Baird sighs: He probably knows by now. Sam and Cole wouldn’t withhold that information, especially after the scene they would have found in his room.

He wonders what would have happened if he’d told Marcus. It couldn’t have gone wrong, really, but it just felt… it was too much. He’s been hiding his whole life. Stepping out of the shadows is hard, especially when they’ve become so comfortable… so normal.

It’s a wonder the tattoo hasn’t gotten infected. He can’t feel any particular agitation, but surely under these conditions it won’t take much. Thankfully his long sleeve has stayed in relatively good condition so no one has noticed and that’ll probably keep it clean as long as the sleeve holds up.

After a while he closes his eyes. Sleep won’t come easy—if at all—but he knows he could use the strength.


	17. Cowl of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton gives Sam his view of the situation. Meanwhile, Griffin is done waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N & Warning: Damon's part of this chapter is dark. Although, there's nothing explicit, so I think it should okay for most.

Sam has been watching Carmine like a hawk. No one really knows what his take on the situation is, only that he’s done everything necessary to help without compliant. This say something in a positive direction, but since Marcus is so dead set on finding Damon, he might also be afraid of pissing him off. Carmine’s no pipsqueak, but Marcus has a well-known reputation. In short, he’s not someone anyone wants to fuck with.

Either way, it’s not an easy discussion to bring up, and it’s an awkward one to follow through on. Sam hates that fact, but she still holds back. Mostly because she’s not sure how she wants to approach Carmine about it.

It’s the same problem with Dizzy. He’s thankfully with the colonies on the mainland, though. Still, it feels wrong that’s he’s not a part of this with all he’s done and been through with Delta, but Hoffman is right to keep the matter small for now. They need to focus on finding Damon.

Needless to say, the matter of Carmine is more serious. He is, after all, a part of Delta and actively involved with everything going on. In the case that he’s not okay with the situation when everyone expects him to be, who knows what he might feel inclined to do?

As one can imagine, then, it’s not hard to believe that Sam doesn’t quite know what to think when Carmine suddenly approaches her on his own.

“Hey, Sam. Got a sec?” She looks up.  
“What’s up?”  
“Well…” he looks around. “I think it should wait till you finish,” he says, sitting back down. “It won’t take long.” She stares at him for a moment. It doesn’t take long for her to grow a strong suspicion about what’s on his mind. She nods anyway.

Marcus, Bernie, Anya, and Dom have begun searching for Yoltov and Berk again. Cole already finished lunch and wandered off to the bathroom. Carmine just got back from dispensing his tray. And Sam is just finishing her mashed potatoes—thinking makes her a slow eater. So, besides Clayton, she’s the only member of Delta in the mess hall.

Although she’s curious enough now that it takes her only a few seconds to finish up. “Outside?” she asks, standing up. He shrugs, not seeming to care. “Sure.” He’s acting remarkably nonchalant. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t want to talk about _that_. She gets rid of her tray and wanders out of the mess hall with him. Carmine and her get along well, but they’ve never really mingled together, so it’s odd he’d pull her aside like this. What could he want to talk about, then?

They find a quiet place outside. This isn’t too hard given half the COG are in the mess hall or already back to their miscellaneous jobs boosting Azura’s defenses. Carmine looks straight at her when they stop: “Look, I know what you’ve been thinking and you shouldn’t worry about it. At one point, maybe, but… but that got changed.” Sam stares at him without blinking. Maybe he thinks she doesn’t believe him or maybe he really wants to get this all off his chest, because he continues. “I had a little brother—Ben. Not long after he got enlisted, he made this friend. A guy. Kevin. Cody. Or something.” Clay reaches up to scratch the back of his head, pausing midway because he thinks it has his helmet is on, but then remembers it isn’t and resumes. “Anyway, he was just like Baird. Being… you know.” Sam nods slowly. “Ben told me about it in a letter. And I wrote back to tell him he shouldn’t be friends with a guy like that.” Clayton breaks the eye contact, looking as ashamed as he is pained. “He asked why, and when I tried to explain it—said it was wrong, he asked how it could be… I… I didn’t really know why.” He stares off into space behind Sam, not saying anything more. 

His eyes say he’s somewhere else, remembering something distant. It’s been years since… but it’s still a scar that burns. Things like that never really heal. “Ben wrote that it was all in my head,” Clay mutters. “That the whole thing was just apples over oranges.” He shrugs. “It sounded so simple.” Sam suddenly takes a step forward and clasps his shoulder. There’s a smile on her face that looks so honest and happy, it seems to take everything she has not to get emotional. “You’ve discovered something that so many people spend their whole lives misunderstanding.”

*

When Damon wakes up, he’s surprised not to find he’s not being suspended on the hook. Instead he’s lying right where he’d fallen asleep. Only, he quickly realizes, he’s not the only one in the cell. The woman from the boat is sitting on the floor, leaned up against the bars near the cell door, and picking dirt from her nails with a knife.

Shit. Griffin must have gotten impatient with Dallas, so he’s sent someone new. He doesn’t move, not entirely sure why the woman hasn’t started, but assuming it has something with being asleep. “I already know you’re awake,” she says, looking at him at for a second before returning to her nails. Damon makes a pathetic attempt to swallow so he has say something. His mouth feels life a fucking cotton farm. Again.

The woman throws her knife into the wooden floor, making him tense. She looks at him and tilts her head. “Heard the nurse stopped in. Bet you’re hopin’ she doesn’t need to come back.” Damon glowers at her. It doesn’t seem to bother her in the least. “Guessin’ you haven’t changed your mind, though.” She falls silent, seeming to wait for a reply. “No? Just as well. You’re right if you’re thinkin’ Griffin wants a weapon.” Damon’s heated glare turns into a surprise. “The hammer of dawn to be precise.” He clenches his jaw.

Shit. The hammer of dawn has enough power to take Azura off the map, to destroy every fucking COG colony, and really anything else Griffin decides he doesn’t like. If the satellites are still working that is. Take it or leave it, that’s still too dangerous.

“Ultimate revenge ain’t it?” she muses. “Do unto others what they did unto you or some mumbo jumbo.” He looks at the open cell door and then the combat knife—it’s stuck in the wood near the woman’s right boot. “I’d be thinkin’ ‘bout escape now, too.” Baird looks back at her. “Why the hell are you telling me this?” The state of his mouth and throat isn’t making speech his ally, but he manages to say the words well and loud enough— with enough vehemence. Oddly enough she smirks. “Tell you what, Baird, why don’t you just go look at the hammer of dawn yourself?” She grabs up her knife and stands. “Who knows?” The knife shinks back into its sheath. “Maybe there’s some things even a good mechanic can’t fix, eh?”

Damon stares at the cell door when she leaves. What the hell was that all about? He doesn’t have much time to muse about it, because, several minutes, later Dallas and Sumers arrive.

Sumers laughs when he sees Damon glares at him. “What’s the matter Damy? Don’t you appreciate our hospitality?” He doesn’t reply, but if looks could kill, Damon would consider himself a very lucky man. “Well,” Sumers sighs, “You’ve put up a good fight. But I think it’s time you played the part of little bitch and rolled over.” Damon’s jaw is set: not gonna happen. “Your admirable loyalty isn’t so admirable anymore.” Sumers nods at Dallas, and he steps toward Damon. “Griffin is tired of waiting.”  
“Too bad, ‘cause he’ll be going to hell sooner than getting my help,” Damon growls. 

Without warning, Dallas’ hand is around his throat, squeezing and pulling him up. Still bond and too weak to really fight back, Damon fights for breathe instead. “Alright,” Sumers says, seeming to be agreeing with Damon as much as he telling Dallas to lay off. Baird finds himself back on the floor. “Well, then…” He feels a sickening feeling as he watches a knowing smile grow on the Sumers’ face. “Tell me, Damon: seeing as you’re fag and all, have you ever gotten fucked before?”  
“Why? Wanna tell me about how you enjoy it?” The smile turns slightly sour as annoyance mingles with amusement.  
“You always were such an incredibly, giant asshole. Always thought you were too fucking good for anyone else,” Sumers jeers. “Well, I sincerely hope you don’t think you’re too good for this.”

Dallas kneels down and wrestles Baird’s pants down his waist. Fear pounces like a predator on Damon and drags him under its black surface. Suddenly he’s drowning in the darkness of its terror. The only thing he can think of is the bare necessity: stop it. Don’t let it happen. He starts kicking and struggling like a madman in an asylum. Sumers laughs like the psychotic warden.

Dallas is build like a powerhouse and, despite Baird’s hysterical efforts, he’s pinned and forced to be still. With his elbow on his throat, Damon can either choke or contain himself. “What’s it gonna be?” Sumers asks. He leans against the cell bars, watching like a man watching a rodeo with vague interest. But all Damon can hear is his heart thundering in his chest and blood screaming in his ears. He can’t think about what Sumers means, only what’s about to happen.

“You know I can’t read minds…” Dallas’ hand finds the band of his boxer briefs. Damon snaps.  
“Please!” he shrieks, choking himself as he tries to get away. “I’ll fucking do it!” He shivers in fear and disgust as the venomous warmth of Dallas’ hand moves off his waist. A smug smirk cuts across Sumers' face. “Good.” Dallas stands, dusting his pants off. He seems as unmoved as if someone had just asked him to squish a cockroach. Only instead of cockroach he stepped on Damon.

Sumers pulls the cell door back open. Dallas walks out, but he lingers a moment longer. He stares at Damon with a toothy grin, but Damon refuses to look at him. He feel something he scarcely every feels--ashamed. He flinches as the cell door slams shut, and suddenly he's trembling like he's naked in the arctic. Sumers laughs. It's as disgusting as it is unnerving. Have people really fallen so far from the meaning of humanity? He glances towards the cell door to see how psychotic the prick looks, but he's gone. No doubt eager to run back to his master to report success and drink in any praise like dogs at his feet.

The whole episode couldn't have taken more than several minutes. It could have all just been a nightmare, but the nightmare is too real that he can't convince himself otherwise. Besides, nightmares don't follow people out of their imaginations and couldn't pooled his pants at his ankles and leave his a trembling mass of broken nerves. He squeezes his eyes shut. His mind can’t—doesn’t—even want to begin to comprehend it. A small sob escapes his lips. Normally he would try to suck it up, play the tough guy, the real fighter, but this...

It’s the psychological torture that breaks a person, wounds them deeper than any knife, bullet, or fist can. When the mind gets penetrated and disemboweled, the stitches ripe and the person fall apart.

Running through the trenches, tripping over dead bodies, spending nights praying to see morning (even though he wasn’t religious), and pissing his pants terrified and traumatized him, but hadn’t scarred him. He’d seen most every horror of war that could be dished out firsthand, from watching people being torn apart and howling in agony for mercy, to seeing his life dangle so closely before his eyes he could have sworn he’d already left his body. But every wound, every moment was physical, and he’d found ways to keep the mental injuries from happening. In a twisted way he accepted the horrors of war, the death, and pain. He’d built a wall so he could still have some sanity left after it was over.

Rape, however… rape is physiological and physical torture: someone is taking what many people are afraid to give. It destroys self-worth and any feelings of safety burn with it. It’s a desecration in the most intimate form. Seeping into the mind like poison, it shrivels the body like water flowers in a desert. It leaves a fire in a person’s soul that slowly destroys them—Everyday taking away a little more until there’s nothing left. Just a hollow husk, ready to blow away in the wind.

He stares at the filthy, wooden floor with wide eyes. Tears blur them, and he blinks, barely registering the trails of moisture trickling down his cheeks and over his nose. This isn’t Damon crying, though. This is a broken man. The broken man he’d rather die than become.

Somewhere in the functioning depths of his mind, Damon thinks of his tattoo again. He wants Marcus here, so he can tell him why he has it. He doesn’t care if that means Marcus gets to see the man with a rapid firing potty mouth and an ego the size of Jacinto fallen to a fragile, pathetic man sobbing on the floor. Yeah, it would be awkward, and he would be afraid, but some things never have a right moment anyway. And right now that choice not to tell Marcus feels like the heaviest secret he’s ever had.

Then again that’s like most secrets, isn’t it? People think it protects them, and maybe they do, but first they hurt. They’re like the cowl of darkness, hiding the pain and happiness. And sometimes the secrets that people choose to keep are the ones that kill them in that darkness.

Not telling Marcus feels like the heaviest secret, because if he would have—could have—told him it would have been the secret that saved him from this. Damon squeezes his eyes shut. Now it’s going to be the secret that killed him the darkness instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how vocal you guys are about your opinions. XD


	18. Prisoners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two types of prisons--physical ones and mental ones.

Griffin looks as smug as a man can. It makes a wretched, ugly hatred boil over in Damon. He’s silent, though, feeling a shame that marks him. “I’m glad we could come to more agreeable terms,” Griffin says. He laces his fingers together. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, but presumably he’s looking at Baird. “I’m sure you can agree we should start right away.” Beside him, as if to suggest what’ll happen if he protests, Dallas shifts. It makes Damon’s heart spike and adrenaline pours butterflies into his stomach. Griffin watches with a smirk: he’s reading him as easily as a child’s book.

Baird looks at the floor, feeling as afraid as he is furious. He could just as easily jump up and try to beat Griffin to a pulp as he could curl up on the floor and beg for mercy. Neither of them will help (though one would make him feel a hell of a lot better), so he sits very still.

Being in the warden’s office is the first time he’s gotten some hint as to where he is.

When he was pulled out of his cell and dragged through the courtyard, he realized it was in a prison. Literally. There was no prison number or name, though, and the walls were too high to see any hints of where he was. However, the fact that the courtyard was filled with Stranded was also distracting enough that he could have missed something.

The Stranded in the courtyard had been lined up. When he’d been pushed through that line, he realized they were wall waiting for their rations from a pile of COG supplies. Several armed Stranded guards were in front of it, while several more handed out the supplies. He could see what things are turning into.

Griffin stands, and Sumers yanks Baird up. His knees almost buckle just from being tied up for so long, but he’s more relieved to be able to actually to use them than care about them being a little wobbly.

They leave the warden’s office through the lobby and enter the prison's control room.

The room is all wires and computer screens. Most of it’s broken and ready to throw out, but none of it has been touched. Damon suspects it’s because Griffin didn’t know what he’d need. “Well…” Griffin says, walking towards one of the desk. He picks something off it. Baird squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what it is. Griffin turns and walks up to him. He holds out the targeting laser. “I want this operational. I don’t care if it’s inaccurate. It just needs to work.” Damon stares it.  
“I don’t know if the satellites will even pick up the signal,” he says. “They’re breaking down. Malfunctioning. They haven’t had any maintenance in years.”  
“I didn’t ask for excuses,” Griffin retorts. “Fix it.”  
“I’m not a fucking miracle worker.” Dallas hand is on his shoulder, squeezing it painfully tight. The fact that the man is _touching_ him is what’s really uncomfortable, though. Griffin leans into his personal space. “You are now.” He shoves the laser into Damon’s hands. “Get started. Sumers will bring you any tools you need. Everything in this room is scrap.”

Meanwhile, Dallas, having released his shoulder, pulls his knife and cuts the ropes on his wrists. They’ve been gnawing into his wrists for several days. Damon grimaces as he peels a bit of the rope out of his skin. It’s gross enough to make his stomach flip a little. Watching it happen to someone else is one thing. Watching or doing it to yourself? Usually a lot fucking worse.

Griffin walks past him. “I expect a report of progress daily. Try to escape, and you’ll be raped. If I find out you’re delaying, you’ll be raped. Destroy the hammer of dawn—“  
“And I’ll be raped. I got it.” Damon’s voice sounds a lot stronger than he feels.  
“Then don’t forget it.”

It’s not easy working with a potential rapist lingering over his shoulder, but Damon manages to focus enough on his work to realize the targeting laser needs several things fixed. It’ll be difficult, but not impossible—impossible maybe for someone who isn’t an expert in dozens of technical and mechanical fields. For once he almost regrets being such a genius.

Dallas follows him like a hawk, as he checks the computers. It’s annoying and unnerving at the same time. Even though he knows the man won’t act unless he does something he’s not supposed to, Damon can’t help the prickling feeling that he’ll jump on him as soon as he gets the chance. The fact that Dallas says absolutely nothing doesn’t help either.

After a while, Baird realizes everything he needs is here. He just needs the right tools. Fuck. The one time he needs the repair to be difficult or impossible, it’s not. He needs to get out of his mess before shit gets too far south. Since it seems Delta won't be able to save him in time, so he’ll need to figure it out himself.

*  
Sam’s happy relief about Carmine is short lived. Only moments after Carmine and her finish talking, Anya and Cole come rushing up.

“Guys,” Anya starts once she gets within speaking distance. At first she looks and sounds composed, but once she gets closer, they can see her eyes are full of concern and excitement. “We just found Yoltov and Berk.” Sam and Carmine immediately exchange glances. “And it ain’t pretty,” Cole adds, coming up beside her. Sam pales slightly. “What about Damon?”  
“Nothin’. He’s still MIA.” That’s a chilling relief.  
“There’s something else,” Anya says. “Bernie thinks the Stranded have something to do with this.” She sighs, adding reflectively, “From how negotiations went with Griffin, I can’t say I would be surprised.”  
“Damon can fix anythin’, so that’s why they probably went after him.” Sam finds herself in the odd position of wanting to smile. “He’s alive, then.” Cole smiles for her.  
“Yeah, baby, we think so.”

_Meanwhile..._

Marcus stares at Yoltov and Berk’s body bags. He’s not entirely surprised to hear the Stranded have something to do with this—especially if Griffin is included. In a way he’s relieved even. The whole affair was supposed to look like bigotry, but, instead, it was a small piece in a bigger scheme. The motive is the same: hate, but the essence of that hate is rooted in the COG not an orientation. It doesn’t change the fragility of the entire situation, but the glass making up the picture doesn’t seem so broken anymore.

Marcus watches Hoffman and Bernie mutter over how the matter should be handled. Dom is standing nearby, listening and occasionally adding in a few cents. He should be part of that conversation, but his mind isn’t thinking about problem before him. It’s thinking about someone that’s been a problem for him for a long time.

What does Baird mean to him? Sometimes it’s hard to say. Damon makes disliking himself easy. Most people disregard him as a blonde dickhead that must’ve been born with an enormous ego and no empathy. At first Marcus was inclined followed the crowd. Damon seemed an asshole through and through. His bigmouth and apparent lack of respect meant nothing but nasty remarks and thoughtless comments.

Still, even an asshole can be physically attractive. Marcus has never been a sucker for appearance, though. Nevertheless, he could see Damon wasn’t just a naturally born asshole. He has his defense mechanisms like everyone else and was using it like anyone else. Besides, once he got to know the blonde better, he could see there was a lot more to him.

Damon has a unique sense of humor, but it’s his blunt approach in conversations that really create his reputation as an asshole. Subtly is not something Baird seems to play well with. Marcus could see that was partially because he enjoyed making people react, which made it seem like the blonde just hated people. But Cole was a person, and Damon cared deeply about him. Besides, Marcus could see that Damon didn’t just hate people—that was too superficial—, he had a reason for it. Was it fear of becoming too close? Was it just an inability to get along?

That meant being an asshole wasn’t only Baird’s go-to defense mechanism, then: it was also his escape. Marcus original assumptions were only small parts of the full puzzle, though. Damon has every the reason to hate people. Marcus knows that now. People will never let him be and have whom he wants. They’re always judging and stopping him.

It was somewhere along the way of learning about Damon’s nature that Marcus found the un-solid grounds that made him start falling. It was awkward and confusing at first, but in the end there was no denying what it was. The fact that Damon wasn’t an outright asshole and even showed a bit of respect for him did nothing to help him control his growing feelings. It even gave him a little hope.

But he hadn’t answered his own question. What was Baird to him? Well, according to his tattoo, Damon obviously isn’t just a comrade. But Marcus didn’t have to get drunk and tattooed to know that. He just needed to know Damon felt the same for him to accept that it was okay that he’s fallen for him.

Marcus turns as he hears voices—Anya is back with the rest of Delta.

*

Sumers brings Damon a bucket full of assorted tools, tools that Damon has to scoff at. He can’t even use, nevertheless didn’t even ask for, half these things. “How the fuck am I gonna use this?” he asks, holding up a bent screwdriver. “Even a half-ass mechanic can tell this is piece of shit isn’t gonna work.” Sumers jaw is tight. He steps towards Damon.  
“Don’t think that you’re fucking untouchable, just ‘cause we need you’re worthless ass.” Damon deadpans him, but his slightly blanched face gives away his fear. “I can’t work with you and your gorilla hanging over my shoulders,” he says, taking several steps back, already regretting his cockiness and trying to find a way out of it. Sumers snorts. “In a hurry to get fucked? We can always take care of that now.” He glances at Dallas who immediately steps up beside him.

Damon quickly shrinks back against one of the terminals. The room is crisp, but instead getting goose bumps, he's starting to sweat. He swallows, staring between Dallas and Sumers. Dallas’ face looks blasé and indifferent, but Sumers' is sharp and jeering. He looks like the vulture that’s feeling brazen enough to start picking on the wounded animal before it has becomes a carcass.

“F-fuck off before I decide to tell your master you’re delaying me.” He grimaces at how weak his voice sounds. Sumers laughs sharply, hearing that weakness more than the threat. “We’re not going anywhere.”  
“I said I can’t work being watched,” Damon retorts. “I can tell Griffin that if you want.” He grimaces. Why the fuck did he have to say that? Sumers’ lips turn pale. For several seconds he glares at the blonde. And for those several seconds Damon feels a fear thick enough to make him nauseous. “Fine,” he says suddenly. “But if we so much as find a speck of a fucking clue that you’re pissing around behind our backs? You’re fucked.” A grin contorts his face. “Literally.”

Damon collapses against a computer terminal after they’ve left. For a few minutes, he sits there trembling and trying to regain his breath. His heat keeps clanging in his chest for a long time, though. It makes him feel sick. In fact, he’s certain he’s about to vomit for a moment, but the feeling thankfully passes.

He pulls his hand down his face, wincing at the pain it incurs. “Fuck,” he hisses, looking at his wrists. The vivid bruises and ripped flesh are disgusting. It’s not the first time he’s seen something like that, but it is the first time it’s happened to him.

He knows the open wounds will get infected easily. Probably quickly too, given how dirty everything in this room is. The best he can do is keep his sleeves rolled down to cover them up. He grabs his left sleeve, but instead of stretching it for better coverage, pulls it up. He’s just thought of something…

A wobbly small pulls at his lips, putting a little piece of him back together. There it is: that crimson red and dancing handwriting. He slowly traces the letters: M, A, R, C, U, S… F, E, N, I, X. He stares at it for a while. Then smile fades, and he closes his eyes. How could he have gotten this of someone he doesn’t even know he can really love? Yes, they both like each other, but could Marcus really love him and him Marcus?

That’s the thing about love. It can be deceptive sometimes. The feelings Marcus and him share could be as eternal as this tattoo, or they could be as superficial. Besides, Damon has never really loved anyone like that. He has his doubts he’s even capable of something like that. He shakes his head and opens his eyes, whipping the imminent tears away. Of all times, now is not a good one to think about this. If anything, he should be stay optimistic, because this tattoo is his only source of comfort and hope right now. Griffin may have broke him, but he can put himself back together or, at the very least, stop himself from falling farther apart.

This brings Damon back to the reason he's here in the first place.

He looks at the hammer of dawn. He’d set it on the main terminal of the control room to have more room for examining it. An unbearable chill courses down his spine. He knows what’ll happen if he tries to destroy it. It's himself or another war, though.

Why the did reality have to put someone as selfish as himself into this situation?

He walks up to the targeting laser, picking it up with shaky hands. So this is it? His hands start trembling madly as he sets the laser back down. 

_Well, it looks like Marcus isn’t the only who can be a hero._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have no idea if Baird could actually fix a targeting laser for the hammer of dawn, but he's a genius, so is it really so farfetched?
> 
> Also, for those of you who might not have noticed and are interested: I revised Chapter 17 so Bernie's reaction in the first portion is more accurate.


	19. There's No Going Back Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound is heavy and empty. Somehow it seems to carry the weight of the world, but, more importantly, the weight of the moment.

Rendering the hammer of dawn’s targeting laser will be the easy part—anyone can do that. Escaping? That’s a whole different beast. At least two guards are posted outside the control room. There’s no window on the steel door, so he can’t confirm this, but idea itself is predictable and reasonable enough that he doesn’t really need to confirm it. However, that door is his only means of escape. There aren’t any windows, so he can only assume the control room is somewhere in (or near) the bowels of the building.

Damon swept the room to make sure the door wasn’t his only option, looking for large enough air vents and even an emergency escape route, but nothing of use presented itself. “Shit,” he mutters, throwing himself down in the nearest chair. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath: he can get through this. It’s not big deal... He can do this. Not a very convincing argument for someone who is damn near a pessimist at heart and damn near scared shitless, however…

How? How is he going to destroy the targeting laser _and_ get his ass out of a _high security prison_? Not only is he lacking physical competency (bruised ribs don’t heal in a day…), but he’s also unarmed. Damon starts chewing on his lip. What other choice does he have? He can’t just fix the damn laser, he’s already decided that much. But what if he gets caught? Then what? Fuck… he knows what.

Damon clenches his jaw, feeling a surge of nausea that makes him hold his breath. He tries to force his thought from it, but it still makes him shutter: Dallas’ hand on his hip. Sumers laughing like some maniacal motherfucker. Shit like that was horror movie worthy, and it wasn’t a movie he wants to be part of.

“Stop fucking thinking about it,” he mutters. _As if it’s that easy…_

He stares at the door. That’s his only way out. That door will inevitably open again, but he’s not getting out it if he doesn’t have something he can jam through somebody’s brain. He looks at the bucket of tools Sumers’ had brought in. Well, a screwdriver (even a bent one) can be useful in close arms combat if it comes to that. Too bad the asshole didn’t think Damon could use a crowbar for prying open one of the terminals.

_Creek!_

Baird practically jumps out of his seat as the knob of the very door he’s trying to get out of starts to turn. He also damn neared throws himself at the main terminal and grabs the nearest tool out of the bucket—half to pretend he’s working on the laser, half in case he’s feeling cocky (or stupid) enough to make a move. However, when the door opens he looks on feeling a little relief: it’s just the nurse.

She steps inside and closes the door. “Hi.” He stares for a moment.  
“Hi…”  
“I’m back to check on your injuries.”  
“My wrists need something.” He watches the surprise pass over her face. She’s probably expecting him to throw a tantrum similar to last time. “Okay.” She walks to the main terminal and puts the same COG medical bag on one of the keyboards. He pulls his sleeves up carefully, watching her reach into the bag. “No bodyguards?” She laughs. It’s forced. He can tell that made her a tad nervous.  
“They’re outside.”

Damon watches her remove a bottle of antiseptic. By the time she’s twisting off the cap he’s already decided. The woman seems to half suspect it, because as he grabs her shoulder, she’s already landing a punch. She’s stronger that she looks, but Damon’s been smacked around enough that one punch isn’t going to be enough to stop him from escaping right now. He refutes by snapping her face around with his own knuckles. Then he’s immediately pulling her back against his chest with one arm wrapped around her neck and the other keeping her mouth shut.

Damon’s pumping with adrenaline and it makes him tremble with excitement. This is success, but there’s no going back now. If he fucks up now…

“Scream and I break your neck,” he blurts out, threatening the woman as much as he is trying to get his mind back on track. He can’t think about failure right now. She stops struggling, and he feels her heave a big sigh before nodding. He removes his hand from her mouth and pats down her body. “What the hell—?” she starts, but falls silent when he pulls a knife from her cargo pocket. He flips open the blade. “Move.” They walk towards the door. “Tell the guards to open the door.”  
“Think about this, Baird,” she counters. “You don’t even know how to get out of here. I’ll slow you down. You’ll just get caught again.”  
“I’m not waiting for another fucking opportunity,” he hisses, but his hands are starting to tremble. he screams at himself. But then he realizes… he hasn’t even destroyed the targeting laser. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s making a fucking mess of this.

“Move.” They turn around and return to the terminal. He releases her, but holds the knife out in caution. “Pick up the rope.” He points the knife towards the bloody ones on the floor. She looks at him for a moment before grabbing it. He gestures for her to approach and grabs her wrists tightly when she does. “Ow!” she snaps. “I’m not trying to get away, so quit fucking hurting me.”  
“Shut up.” He throws the knife on the main terminal, ties up her wrists, and shoves her into the nearest chair. “Don’t fucking move.” 

He stares at the targeting laser. Okay, now time to fuck Griffin over. At least he can take some slight pleasure in this…

“How do you plan on surviving when you’re destroying the reason you're alive?” the nurse asks. Damon ignores her. “I told you Dallas was twisted.”  
“You think I haven’t fucking noticed?” he snaps, turning towards her. He’s clenching his fists, trembling like a tree in a blizzard. “Sumers is the twisted motherfucker,” he adds, turning back to the terminal. He grabs a piece of the targeting laser and throws it across the room before jamming the bent screwdriver back into it.

It takes him several minutes to dismantle the laser. Military tech is never easy to take apart--it's supposed to be able go through hell and back with the soldier carrying it. He bends various tools trying to get to the heart of the beast. Thankfully it’s difficult and not impossible.

Getting the knife back in his hands, he takes a deep breath. There’s no fucking going back now. No fucking going back. He turns to the women. “You’re going to get me out of here.”  
“And how am I supposed to do that?”  
“You’re a medic, so you’re not expendable, right?” She shrugs.  
“Depends on Griffin’s mood. I probably will be once he figures out what’s going on.” Damon chews this information over.  
“Besides, even if we do escape, you’re not exactly in top shape. How far do you think you’re going to get?”  
“Look, sister,” he retorts, “I don’t have a fucking choice, so just shut the hell up and let’s go.” The woman stands and starts towards the door. “Wait." He slings her medical bag over her head.  
“Now are we good?” He grabs her, so she’s his meat shield again. “Is this really necessary?” "Just shut up."

He let’s her knock on the door when they get to it. The sound is heavy and empty. Somehow it seems to carry the weight of the world, but, more importantly, the weight of the moment. “It’s Carrie. Open up.”  
“Yeah,” comes the muffled reply from the other side. There’s the scrapping sound of a key fitting into the door. “Why the hell did you come in here alone?” Damon asks suddenly. Obviously this is some high security shit. Why would they risk letting a medic take care of a prisoner without some sort of protection? “Because I was dumb enough to think you wouldn’t try anything,” she retorts. The door opens so he doesn’t have time to reply.

“Car—!”  
“Fuck off!” Damon holds the knife to her neck. “Don’t do anything stupid. Back the fuck off. Now!” The two men outside the door step away slowly. “Drop your weapons. Kick them over here.” One gnasher shotgun and a standard issue COG pistol slide across the floor. Damon leans down with Carrie. “Pick the gnasher,” he says, quickly exchanging the knife for the pistol. She awkwardly picks it up.

“Get in there.” Damon gestures towards the control room with the gun. The men exchange glances. “Get the fuck in there!” They slowly approach. “Try anything, and you’ll all get a fucking bullet.” The two raise their hands and edge around him, making their way into their room. “Throw the keys out here.” One of the men tosses them. “Put the gun down and shut the door,” he tells Carrie.

Once the door is closed, Damon pushes Carrie away and picks up the shotgun. He slips the pistol into his belt—not the safest place, but better than nothing. “One of those men had a radio on them, you know.” Damon freezes, staring at her in horror. “There's one for prison watch, two for the lookouts, and one for what you could call control. But the individual radios won't connect to other individual radios. Don't know why, but that means everything goes to control,” she explains. Then she snorts. “You’re lucky I know who’s control today.” Damon blinks registering the information slowly, because it sounds like she's trying to help him now. “What the hell do you mean?”  
“It’s just down the hall, upstairs. How about I show you?” This snaps Damon back. His eyes narrow: _Why the fuck should I trust you?_

Carrie takes a few steps forward, seemingly to take Damon’s silence as a tentative maybe. But he raises the gnasher. She sighs, looking around even though there’s obviously no one here. (Except maybe two prison guards turned prisoners anxiously pressed against the door listening.) “Look, not everyone wants Griffin as leader. You saw what he was doing with the COG supplies, didn’t you? Rationing it out like we’re supposed be prisoners.” Damon lowers the gnasher slightly. Yeah, he did see that. “Fine.” Carrie walks up to pass him, but he stops her again. “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll find my way out of here without your help.” She nods, seeming confident that isn't going to happen. That doesn't make Damon feel better, but he let’s her take the lead anyway.

Carrie leads him through building like she’d been through the halls a million times. Damon tries to keep track of their position, but when he looks back after a while, he realizes he’s already lost. “I thought you said it was just down the hall,” he grumbles. She shrugs. “Feels like it to me. But we’re just about there anyway.” She pushes open a door leading to a stairway. “Just up the first two.” He nods, letting her go first.

After the two sets of stairs there's another door, which Carrie knocks three times on before pausing and adding two more knocks. “Yeah, get in here,” comes the reply. She looks at Damon before pulling the door open. “Hello again.” he pauses in slight surprise.  
“You?”  
“Yeah ‘me’. Who’d you expect? The tooth fairy?”


	20. Only Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now or never.

Damon stands in the doorway for a moment. He’s not stupefied, but, yeah, he can’t lie: he’s a little surprised. “Well?” she says. “Get in here. We’ve got stuff to talk about and not a lotta time.” Damon steps inside. As soon as he's in Carrie negotiates shutting the door and throwing down the lock as best she can with her hands bound. Baird looks around the room, seeing there isn’t much of anything here except a desk with some jury-rigged radio equipment piled on it. There are several windows facing northward towards the compound, making it an excellent vantage point. It basically looks like the perfect location to spy on people and chew the shit on the radio (assuming it works).

The woman throws her single braid over her shoulder, scrutinizing him like he’s a recruit back in boot camp. The feeling doesn’t sit well. “Well? I thought we had a lot to talk about,” he mocks.  
“Right then,” she mutters. Then louder: “What did you do with guards? I assume they’re the only ones that know you’re out.”  
“Yeah. And now they’re in.”  
“Good. That makes things a bloody lot easier for us.”  
“Us?” Damon looks back at Carrie and then woman. “What is this? Women Against Griffin or something?” The braided one crosses her arms, but Carrie is the first to speak up.  
“It isn’t just us,” she insists.  
“Griffin doesn’t care about the well bein’ of the Stranded anymore,” the other says, flatly. “Look, I don’t give a shit if you like us or not, but we’re all in the same boat here.” She walks up to Carrie and pulls out her knife, cutting the rope. “I suggest we quit rocking it and start paddling.” Damon draws a long breath. He’s holding his gnasher so hard his knuckles are turning white. Yeah, okay. Fine. She’s… right.

“You know this is Carrie,” the woman continues, walking back to her desk. Damon nods, rolling his eyes slightly, because who cares? “Huh. And who are you, then?”  
“Sergeant Evalynn Copperfield,” she drawls like it’s boring ole’ nothing. “Former squad commander in the Onyx Guard.” Despite his best efforts, Baird mouth falls open. She gives him a quick smile. He quickly shuts it, blinking rapidly as if the information will concur faster. Onyx-fucking-Guard? He shakes his head. “Yeah, and I’m fucking Prescott back from the dead.”  
“I knew Hendrik.” Baird smartens.  
“She ditched for the Stranded.” In other words: "You would have met her without even being in the Onyx Guard." Copperfield shrugs, not taking his disbelief as personal or important.  
“She had her reasons just like I did, I imagine.” Baird only stares, his eyes darkening slightly. “You’re actin’ like it’s treason, but if you’d seen some of things the COG did, you’d have thought it was to stay in service.” Damon’s jaw tightens. He did. He did see some of the things the COG did. He fucked _helped_ them do some of those _things_. “Yeah, and letting the locust fuck over humanity would have been so much better,” he snaps. He grits his teeth, and opens his mouth to let loose some more of his nervous energy in the form of piss n’ vinegar, but the radio crackles to life, suddenly. “Copperfield! Come in, damnit! I thought you said you were gonna be down here ASAP? What the fuck is going on?” They all stare at the radio.  
“We’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Copperfield sighs, as if reading his mind.  
“Fine. How the fuck are we gonna get out of here then?” he asks.  
“Copp—!” She flips the radio off.  
“We don’t have a lot of time. This--right now--is our only chance. If we fuck up that’s it.” Damon nods slightly: tell me something I don’t know.

 

*

Finding Berk and Yoltov _and_ realizing the Stranded were probably involved was a sucker punch as much as it was a lead. As Bernie had suspected everyone was more than willing to believe her theory. Not only because it seemed so probable, but also because believing it meant Baird was alive.

There are worse things than dying, though, and Bernie is beginning to feel an ever-growing feeling of urgency the longer they realize how half-assed their lead is. Shit could be real dangerous if Griffin has Baird. He’s a hell bent motherfucker, and she knows a bit about his past in the corporation business to know just what other kind of shit he’s capable and willing to do. Griffin built and destroyed corporations like the moon waxes and wanes. He was relentless and greedy, a demon wearing a man’s skin. Those are things Bernie’s sure hasn’t changed.

Unfortunately, she also knows only too well what’s Baird’s mouth is capable of getting him into. Combine that with his impossible stubbornness, and he was the POW most likely to get himself killed because he kept pissing off his captures. With that capture being Griffin, who knew how long that would take? A man or a woman can do stupid thing when they’re pissed to high hell.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling annoyed and worried. Annoyed, because Baird might only make his situation worse. Worried because of what that might mean and what Griffin will do to get what he wants.

What he wants… What does Griffin want? What is his ultimate plan?

Bernie honestly couldn’t care less right now, but Hoffman has imposed the question several times with the past 4 hours. She loves that man more than she’s allowed to, but sometimes she wishes he would look at the little pieces that made up the big picture. Getting Damon back is their main priority. That much she’s made certain is clear. As for how they’re going to get him back? Well, that's complicated. Not only did they have no idea where the Stranded might be keeping Baird, they also had no idea where any of the Stranded. For the most part the civilians had disappeared from the COG radar, appearing only to raid colonies weekly.

“We need a hostage,” Bernie says. She sees Marcus shift suddenly out of the corner of her eye, looking at her intensely. The past few days he’s been more worried than she’s seen him in a long time. Now he looks just plain eager. He’s anxious for her to have a plan. With his blood shot and baggy eyes it’s not wonder he hasn’t been able to think of anything himself--he's exhausted. “There’s no pattern in the raids, and we’ll be compromising the confidentiality of the situation,” Hoffman replies. He never had a problem with playing the devil’s advocate, a quality Bernie finds she can’t appreciate all the time. If anything, however, he's going to make sure whatever Delta 1 does, it does not compromise the already fragile "relationship" between the COG and Stranded. For now it's only supplies being snatched--no casualties. The only foul is stealing. That'll piss of a lot of people, but it's nothing to start a war over. Two COG dead and one MIA? That's drawing the line the sand. Whatever may come, they _cannot_ risk another war. Not now. Not so soon.

"We can say the hostage for general intel," Bernie offers. "Set it up like we're lookin' to make peace with them." Hoffman stares at her a moment.  
"We are going to make peace with them."  
"Not so long as Griffin is around," Marcus growls. Hoffman leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.  
"This operation has Griffin written all over it," he says. "I want him out of the picture before he destroys what chance we have left of making an alliance."  
"We find ourselves a prisoner, get Baird back, and kill Griffin, then," Marcus sums up.

*

Copperfield gives Baird a change of clothes. They’re less than savory, but he definitely looks more like Stranded than COG when he’s put them on. The outfit is even complete with a bandana, which is the most important piece. “Keep your face mostly hidden. Nothin’ too conspicuous,” Copperfield tells him.  
“Like I didn’t already know that,” he mutters, filing out the door behind her. They’re saving him, and he’s scared as fuck, but he still has the gall to be an ass. Bernie used to tell him there were better uses for his boldness, but she gave up after realizing he didn’t agree.

As they wander down the hallway, Baird runs all the possible fuck-ups through his mind— if anything goes wrong, if they getting spotted… he’s done. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna get captured again. Not after Griffin’s promise. No, he’d rather splatter his brains. Clenching his teeth, he swallows with some difficulty. Could he really do that? Could he kill himself?

He’s so caught up that he walks into Copperfield’s outstretched arm. She’s looking around the corner in the main lobby, but has turned to look when he fails to stop. "WTF," he mouths, but his heart is in his throat. Copperfield leans in close and whispers, “Dallas and Sumers.” Damon’s knees suddenly feel unbearably weak. He leans back against the wall. If his heart was in his throat before, it’s about to bust out his mouth now. He closes his eyes trying regain at least a sliver of his courage. “Back,” Copperfield hisses, ushering him back down the hallway. If there were ever a time to turn hysterical it's now. Damon starts trembling like a dead leaf ready break away from a tree. Copperfield gives him a little shove. “Keep going,” she whispers. But all Damon can think about is: how close are they?

He watches Carrie try another door, but it doesn’t budge. It's the third one. The sound of Sumers’ sharp voice echoes down the hall. “Oh, God,” Damon groans. If those fuckers get around that corner they’re screwed. His stomach feels twisted and sick.

Suddenly a guardian angel finally takes a goddamn hint, and the next door opens. Not, however, without producing a squeak that sounds like someone mind as well had screamed. They all flinch, but there’s to be done. Carrie slips inside followed by Damon and Copperfield. It’s pitch black inside, so with hands carefully outreached they make sure not to disturb anything. Copperfield quietly closes the door behind them and holds the handle with one hand, a pistol in the other. Damon tightly holds his gnasher, fully prepared to start unloading like a crazy bastard. His breathing becomes short and tight as the sound of footsteps draws nearer and nearer. Suddenly they’re right next to the door. He starts hyperventilating. It’s like he can’t remember how to breathe—or rather he’s not getting any air no matter how fast he gasps.

He can practically smell Dallas’ musky, irony scent already. His hands are on Damon’s body, raking down his legs as he strips away clothes. He’s helpless. There’s nothing he can do, no way to stop _it_ from happening. “Damon!” Evalynn hisses. He nearly yelps, but a hand around his mouth keeps him quiet. “Shhh…” she whispers. They’re just outside… and they’ve stopped.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Baird squeezes his eyes shut. His fingers are numb from holding the gnasher so tightly. “Control your breathing,” Evalynn whispers in his ear. He barely hears her with his mind is so overwhelmed.  
“Fuck,” Sumers snarls. “Keep fucking going.” Then at the top of his lungs: “We’re gonna search every goddamn room in this compound! Every cell, every stall in the shitter! You hear me Damon? I’m gonna find you!” He brays like a sadistic donkey as the door just left to theirs crashes open. Damon nearly jumps out of his skin. Evalynn grabs his shoulder, keeping her hand over his mouth. Normally he would claw away from her, but he’s barely keeping it together. “Hmm…” Sumers muses. The door’s hinges squeal angrily as it’s closed again. “When I do find you,” he mutters, “I’m gonna make sure you don’t die. Not for very, very long time.” Damon releases a heavy breath as they keep walking. Their footsteps fade down the hallway. He closes his eyes, listening the relieving sound. Copperfield pulls her hand away from his mouth. “They're goin' to the comm room. Soon as they get the radio, shit'll really get serious.” Damon pushes her hand off his shoulder.  
"Yeah, ya think," he hisses.

When Evalynn gives them the ‘okay’, they move out. They run to the lobby. Damon’s body is screaming in protest as he tries to keep up. Still, he would rather endure seven hours of this crap than one second of recapture. He stops, however, when Copperfield starts towards the entry doors. “The front fucking door?” he hisses.  
“Yeah, come on.” She grabs the handle.  
“What the hell! Are you fucking insane?”  
“Lucky for you I am,” she retorts. “Look, we don’t have time for a detour.” She adds upon seeing his desperate expression. She opens the door. “Just hope no one thinks you’re stupid enough to go this way.”  
“Ah, fuck...”  
“Here.” Carrie hands him her COG medical bag. “If anyone asks, you’re my new assistant.” Baird throws it over his shoulder. Even though it's slight, it makes him feel better to know he has some background story. Taking a deep breath, Damon forces himself outside and tries to look as normal as someone in his position can.

It’s crisp outside and the dark clouds overhead suggest an impending rain shower. Fortunately it means most of the citizens have wandered off to find cover and warmth. Baird hastens to keep close behind his escort, warily watching the guards atop the prison walls. How could they have chosen this of all places to live? Sure it's well fortified, but it's positively dreary as hell. Then again, according to how Griffin runs this, it's ironically accurate.

Evalynn slows until Baird is walking parallel. “Sumers is batshit scared of Griffin. He won’t have the balls to tell em’ your missing. Not yet. Soon as he gets that comm, he'll be lettin' one of his friends--a guard on the wall--know what's up. Soon as that happens, we're gonna have hell of a time gettin' out.”  
“Great,” Baird mutters. He’s barely keeping it together as is. He burrows his face into the folds of his bandana, wondering if anyone will recognize his face.  
“I need to know one thing: did you destroy it?”  
“What?” Damon glances at her.  
“The laser. Everything to do with the bloody weapon,” she hisses. He stares for a moment, a little surprised at her passion over the issue.  
“Yeah. Yeah, I destroyed it.” Her face lightens significantly--relief.  
“Good.”

They approach the battered and crumbling wall of the compound. The large, front double doors fixated in the thick walls are the only way out of this hellhole. Right now one of them is cracked open, but the abrasions in the ground indicate it doesn’t always stay that way. “Hey, Copper!” someone shouts as they close in. Baird jumps.  
“Oi, Jim,” she replies.  
“What’re you doing? Don’t tell me you’re going out in this crap?”  
“Ain’t no rest for the wicked, eh?”  
“Only taking two? You sure you don’t want… I don’t know--five?”  
“We’re fine, Jim. Ain’t goin’ far. Don’t plan on gettin’ into any trouble.”  
“Not even gonna take your rifle?” Evalynn laughs.  
“Come on, Jim. That’s just for serious business. I got all I need.” She pats the holster at her waist. He only shrugs, and Evalynn hurriedly gestures for them to keep walking. Damon’s hands start sweating. _Come on... They’re nearly out the door..._

There's the murmur of a conversation exchange upon the wall. “Hold on a second, Copperfield," Jim yells down. They freeze in place. Evalynn raises her arms in annoyance.  
“Come on, I got a schedule, Jim!"  
"Who's your blonde friend there?" There's a long moment of silence. Evalynn glances at Damon.  
"Him? Just a friend." The Jim fellow says nothing, simply staring at Baird.  
"Strange," he notes. "Never seen him 'round before. How about I come down and say 'hi'?"  
"How 'bout when we get back?"  
"What's the rush? It'll only take a sec." Evalynn watches him make his way towards the stairway. She looks back at Carrie and Damon's faces, frozen in anxiety. "Run." Their gaze breaks from Jim to her. "Run, goddamnit!" she yells. Damon snaps out of it, grabs Carrie's arm, and jerks her towards the door with him. They dash through and towards the tree line. Behind them Jim starts scream, "Stop them!" Gunfire open up behind them. “Oh God,” Carrie moans as bullets whizz past them.  
“Keep going!” Copperfield hollers behind them. She sounds miles away, but is no doubt just behind them.  
“Fuck!” Baird hisses, grabbing his shoulder as searing pain shoots through his deltoid. He trips up, but Carrie makes sure he keeps on his feet.

“You hit?” Evalynn asks once they get past the tree line.  
“Yeah, just a graze,” Damon pants between breathes. He manages to twist his arm around to see the narrow miss while running. There’s a slow trail of blood oozing from the wound. Nothing serious but hurts nonetheless. “I’ve got a hideaway three miles north,” Evalynn says. “We get there, we’ll be safe for a while.”  
“Great.” She thinks he can go three miles, huh? He's not so sure, but he sure as hell hopes he can. But he's weak. Tired. His body will quit long before his mind does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Here's that chapter update I promised for the week. I apologize for making it so late in the week. There was a lot of editing. Since it's been so long, I also had to reread the whole story to make sure everything was accurate!
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments. I'm glad so many people have been enjoying this story (honestly I probably wouldn't have finished it for a long time if people hadn't started asking).


	21. Shackles

The patient drizzle steadily becomes more aggravated. Barren as the forest floor is, a muddy paste has begun to accumulate. It’s heavy and grasping, pulling at their energy and spirits. As they stumble and twist through the woodlands, it becomes clearer that the weather has doubled the time of a thirty to forty minute rendezvous.

Trembling from the cold, Damon slick fingers grip at Evalynn’s jacket. He can feel her shaking as well. Despite leaning so heavily against her, they’re not sharing much of any warmth. Of course, drenched from head to toe, the sheer sodden state of their clothes seems to suck away any potential for even a little warmth.

Trudging forward, Damon is so goddamn tired he doesn’t know how his legs are working. He’s on autopilot, watching his body move with no mental stimulus. He wants to stop more than anything. He just needs to lie down for five minutes and close his eyes.

But right now they’re animals. They’re animals being hunted.

Sumers words twist through Damon’s mind. It’s an agonizing repeat that’s been playing since they got out: _”I’m gonna make sure you don’t die. Not for a very, very long time.”_ The worst of it is that the unhinged fucker meant every word of it. Damon believes that down to his core. Sumers would turn him inside out before throwing him to the crows. It’s those words that keep Damon going. They’re the very reason he hasn’t quit yet. 

As the sun begins its poetically aesthetic decent, the first clap of thunder thrums overhead. With it the rainstorm truly begins, and it’s cold. There’s no shelter in the dead forest. The thickets are sparse while the trees are gnarled and naked. Rain hammers at them rhythmically, coiling a tight ring of despair around them. It seems to say, “Stop. Rest. Why keep going on?” Damon squeezes his eyes shut, knowing he must be losing marbles at this point if the rain is _talking_.

“Whoa!” Evalynn yelps as the blonde slips on the slick back of a branch. She tries to keep him up as he loses his balance, but as strong as she is, Damon’s too heavy and she’s too tired. “Fuck,” she grunts, taking a knee as she at least keeps his upper body off the ground. “Carrie, gimme a hand.” They upright him between the two of them and get him to rest against a tree. “We’ll take five here.”  
“It can’t be much farther?” Carrie hopes.  
“Nah,” Copperfield confirms. “We’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes. Should only be another ten.” She turns to Damon, patting his shoulder to try to get his attention. “Hey, you alive?” Damon looks up through his lidded eyelashes, mouth too dry from panting to articulate a reply. “We’re almost there.” The stalwart look about her is almost comforting— it reminds him of Marcus. “We’re taking five, okay?” His closes his eyes… five sounds good.

He barely seems to have drifted when a hand shaking him awake. He shakes his head when someone tries to pull him to his feet. “No,” he mouths. “No,” he manages the second time. “Come on, Baird.” Evalynn shakes his shoulder again. “We have to go,” she stresses.  
“I can’t,” Damon whispers. His voice is throaty, taunt. “I can’t…” He can barely keep his eyes open and when he closes them he sees Dallas and Sumers’ faces. They’re mocking, laughing—knowing he can’t escape; he can’t outrun them. He’s a rat in the maze. No matter which way he turns, he’ll never get out.

“You don't have a bloody choice,” Copperfield hisses. Baird tries to push her hand away, but he’s not really there, not really caring. “Just go away.”  
“You stupid son of a bitch!” Baird opens his eyes. “Didn’t you hear him? Didn’t bloody well hear what he said he was going to do?” His eyes train on hers. “We have to go. Now.”

A clap of thunder rolls overhead. Damon looks up, letting the rain pour over his face. “Tops ten minutes more,” Evalynn persists. “You’re quitin’ at the end of the—“ They both freeze, shell-shocked as Carrie screams. Her face contorts in pain. Out of the rain and gloom, Sumers’ face appears over her shoulder. His grin is stolen from a demon—sinister and piercing. Evalynn screams as Dallas wraps an arm around her neck. She howls, as the arm starts to choke the life out of her.

Damon watches silent, cold. Helpless. He watches Carrie’s eyes suddenly die. They’re open, beautiful, but dead. He can see it. He can see it in her eyes. There’s nothing there anymore.

Sumers pushes her into the mud, whipping his knife against his pant leg. “Stupid bitch,” he laughs. “Stupid, stupid….” He stomps her head, pressing her face in the mud. “…Bitch.” Damon stares. He’s trembling in fear as much as the cold, but he can’t look away.

“R-run!” Evalynn gasps. “Run!” Sumers ‘tsks’ as Damon looks at her. Dallas has her picked off the ground, starving her of air. She keeps mouthing the words. “There’s no where left to run, Damon.” He looks back at Sumers. “There’s no where left to go.” He kneels before him. “You’re just the little pig stuck in the pen… waiting for slaughter.” Damon watches Sumers run his finger down the edge of his blade. It’s almost a loving, affectionate touch. He stares at the man’s face, watching him gaze thoughtfully at his knife. He looks so serene, so content. Then his expression contorts into annoyance as Dallas grunts. Damon glances back, mostly in surprise, because it’s the only he’d ever heard anything come out of Dallas’ mouth. 

Copperfield’s teeth are sunken into Dallas’ arm. She comes away with a mouthful of his flesh, spitting it at Sumers. Damon watches, frozen, as the scene spills out before him. Evalynn cracks her way out of Dallas’ death hold after her boot firmly implants into his groin. Sumers swings his knife at her, barely grazing the side of her neck. She retaliates by swinging for his face, sending him stumbling backwards. Grimacing, Sumers feels his cheek. He smiles.

Baird knows that look. He remembers what happens the last time he took a swing at Sumers… back when they were seaside. He watches Sumers pounce on her, knowing how maniacal, single-minded that pain just made him.

Evalynn manages to swat the knife away, but Sumers is all over. His fists find her face, and they don’t stop. He starts pounding, grinning like a love-struck schoolboy. Baird watches as his fists get bloodier and bloodier… and bloodier.

As the last flickers of sunlight waver over the horizon, he sees it. Then the knife is suddenly in his hands. For a moment he stares at it. He looks at Sumers, and his eyes darken. His breath starts to become ragged. A sudden vacuum of emptiness overwhelms his mind—like he’s preparing himself, like he’s shutting down his conscious so he doesn’t have to remember this. So he doesn’t have to relive this.

A bitter howl leaves Sumers throat as the knife digs into his back. Baird thrusts the blade up to the hilt. He pushes him offer Copperfield and into the mud beside Carrie. Straddling him, Baird spears his chest. Sumers screams and starts to beg, but it’s just noise. Background noise. Inside Baird’s mind it’s quiet.

He keeps stabbing.

Again and again and again.

He doesn’t see or feel anyway, only the blood and the knife. When he’s launched off Sumers’ body by a powerful, painful weight he only lays in the mud, feeling nothing, hearing nothing. He stares at his hands, watching the rain frantically try to wash away the blood. There’s so much. He waits. He’s not sure what for. Maybe for the end, for Dallas to finish what his partner started. Nothing happens. 

He hears a gunshot.

Then he sees movement out of the corner of his eye; he watches Evalynn struggling to crawl towards him. He only stares, watching her disappear into a silhouette of the night. Minutes tick by. Neither of them says anything. They simply lay there, under the cold blanket of night. Cold. Tired. Hurt.

Then, finally, Evalynn speaks up. “Hey…” Her voice is throaty, tight. “Baird, you still there?” His mouth forms the words, but his voice doesn’t make the sounds. He blinks dully and reaches out in the darkness finding a clammy hand. For a moment he thinks—then pulls away… Carrie. “Yeah,” he whispers. He listens to the sounds of her struggling to her feet. “Fuck,” she hisses. “Where are you?” Her voice sounds strange… warped. He thinks of Sumers bloody hands. He really did a number of her.

A gingerly hand grazes past his shoulder. Then, realizing it’s him, grips him tightly “Let’s go. Before the others show up.” Baird takes her forearm with his other hand and finds what little strength he has left to get up.

*  
Being on Azura was like being on a little pocket outside the real world. Even though it had only been little over a week since they’d been back inland, Sam found herself staring. Everything was gone. She’d long known nothing would be the same, but somehow she’d found herself hoping that things wouldn’t be quite so bad when they got back. She was wrong.

Everything beautiful and alive on Sera was whipped out by the war. It’s just memories now. That’s all they have left—ashes and sights burned into the back of their minds.

Delta arrived onshore at a small COG colony known as Havenport several hours ago. There’s familiar faces here: Dizzy and Jace. They’re friends of Delta and more than deserved to know the situation. Bernie filled them up once they had a moment in privacy. She left out the initial reason they thought Baird was attack. That’s not why Baird was attacked after all. It was just a set-up. Whoever ambushed him tried to make it look like a hate crime. It makes Sam sick to know that a hate crime such as homophobia would be taken so much less seriously than being taken captive.

These two things weren’t so different—not so different as people might thing. The only cut that kept them apart was homophobia is a constant prison guard. A real hostage situation was temporary. 

“Marcus, you okay?” Marcus rolls his shoulders. He’d knew Dom would eventually come pu and ask. He’d seen him watching him all day, concerned but keeping his distance. “Just worried.” Dom settles beside him. They stare into the abyss that was the wake of the sea hours ago. “We’ll find him,” Dom promises. Marcus doesn’t say anything. More than anything he wants to believe him, plain and simple. But nothing is ever plain and simple. Even if he does find Baird, he’ll still be a prisoner. They’re both prisoners. No matter how free their bodies are, their minds will always be in shackles. He turns to look towards the west as a low rumble of thunder echoes across the miles.

_‘Where the hell are you, Damon?’_


End file.
